Читать книгу The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters: the ultimate heart-warming read for 2018 - Nadiya Hussain - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

Fatima

It’s going to be fine. I wiped the palms of my hands on my trousers that crinkled from the sweat. Before I realised it my hand lunged towards my bedside drawer, shuffling around to try and find my stash. How could I have run out? Going downstairs wasn’t an option given that I heard Mum on the phone with Jay. That’s the first time he’s called in two months. Every time after a conversation with him there’s always this odd kind of quiet that’s filled with trivial stuff like, Did you get the toilet paper? And Let’s re-arrange the family album. Mum can never quite look any of us in the eye, while Dad goes into the garden to inspect the flowers. I took a deep breath and went to open the window in my room. Just as I’d predicted, there he was, standing with his hands on his hips, staring at his begonias.

I glanced at the next-door neighbours and quickly looked away. Marnie was out, sunbathing, stark naked. My eyes hovered towards her again. Amazing, isn’t it? She hasn’t a care in the world about who’s looking at her and what others might think. What about all the insects in the grass? What if they decided to make a detour right up her … ugh. Still, that is what you call being sure of yourself. Her whole family’s like that. Naked, but sure of themselves. Dad scratched his head and bowed it so low it looked like he might’ve dropped off to sleep. I wanted to go down and talk to him about his flowerbed, but I hate leaving my room – the comfort of its four walls and dim light. I turned around and reached into my drawer again, just to double-check its contents, and right there at the bottom I felt the steely tube; crumpled, but there was hope. Lifting it out, I saw that my tube of Primula cheese had been squeezed to within an inch of its life. I unscrewed the lid and pushed into the top – a meagre bit of cheese poked out of the nose and back in again. Just then I heard Mum rapping at the kitchen window.

‘Jay’s Abba. Come inside,’ she said to Dad.

I watched Dad peer in at her, confused. Not because she referred to him as Jay’s dad – we’re Bangladeshi, after all, and there are some traditions you can’t let go of; like calling your partner by your eldest child’s name. Except in this case – even though I’m the eldest – it’s Jay’s name because he’s their only son. It doesn’t bother me though – not really.

‘Come inside,’ Mum repeated to Dad.

I guess she saw that Marnie was out too. There was nothing for it; I had to go down eventually, anyway, considering what day it was. So, I made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

‘Don’t be nervous,’ said Mum as I sat down at the table.

‘I’m not,’ I said, trying to smile without wanting to be sick everywhere.

She blew over me after having muttered a prayer.

‘Have you said your prayers?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I lied.

She patted my head and put a plate of biscuits in front of me, before going to make tea for Dad. He looked towards Mum, standing at the kitchen hob, and then over his shoulder. Reaching into his pocket, he handed me some money, putting his finger to his lips. I forgot about my nerves for a minute as I mouthed ‘Thank you’ and tucked the money into my jeans pocket. I don’t know why he hides the fact that he gives me money for all my driving lessons from Mum – but it’s become our little secret.

‘Remember,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘You look into the rear-view mirror every few seconds, they will pass you.’

‘That’s what you said last time, Abba,’ said Mae, who’d wandered in, holding her phone’s camera towards us. ‘It’s time for some new advice. For my video, thanks.’

‘Switch that off and help me make the dinner,’ said Mum to her. ‘Farah is coming later.’

Mae rolled her eyes. ‘Or maybe you should get a new driving instructor,’ she said. ‘Because he’s obvs not doing something right.’

Dad scratched his jet-black hair. I wish he’d let it go grey like normal dads do. No-one actually believes his hair is that black.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You know how long it took to find a Bengali instructor? Lucky he is just in the next town.’

But Mae had already stopped listening and was tapping something on her phone.

‘Don’t worry, Abba – I’ll remember to check all the mirrors,’ I replied before turning to Mum. ‘Is Farah coming alone?’

‘Yes, she’s not staying long,’ said Mum.

Of course she wasn’t. She’d be going home to her husband. I imagined her greeting him as he walked through the door. Or maybe she’d be in the bathroom and he’d call out to her? I do like it when the two of them come over sometimes, though. It’s like watching TV but in real life. Only, every time they leave I’m left with this hollow feeling inside, because it is real life – just someone else’s. I picked up a biscuit to go with the squeezy cheese Mum had just put on the table for me, but it was snatched from my hands. Mae, of course. She handed me a carrot stick instead while eyeing a bottle of olive oil.

‘Mum, that isn’t organic,’ she said.

‘Mae,’ said Dad. ‘We didn’t have organic in our day and we are fine and healthy.’

‘Yeah, right,’ she retorted.

A car horn beeped outside. I gulped as my mum and dad both looked at me. Everyone takes their driving test, I tried to reason with myself. What is there to be nervous about? So what if, at the age of thirty, I’ve failed before? And the time before that? And so many times before that? My heart felt too big for my chest. I took the tube of cheese as I got up and made my way to the front door.

‘Say bismillah before you begin,’ Mum shouted out.

Bismillah. In the name of God. What was the point in telling Mum that I’d tried that before each driving test and it’s not exactly worked so far.

‘I will,’ I called out.

I steeled myself as I put my hand on the front door handle. You can do this. Because whatever happens you don’t just give up on a thing, do you? Opening the door, I saw my instructor’s red Nissan Micra parked outside our home. Ashraf lowered his head, dark hair flopping over his eyes, and waved at me. I took another deep breath before setting foot outside the door.

*

‘You shouldn’t get so nervous,’ he said as I steered the car into a parking spot outside the test centre after I’d had my lesson.

I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I looked up at the brown building. I can’t fail again.

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘Don’t just say okay. Mean it,’ he replied, softening his tone. ‘You drove well.’

‘Okay.’

‘Fatima, the problem isn’t whether you can do this or not – the problem is you believing you can do it.’

I stared at the steering wheel because he was right, of course. But it was all such an embarrassment. Which thirty-year-old woman struggles this much with a driving test? It’s just that I know if I can do this, I’ll be able to get my life in order. I’d be free. Independent – not have to rely on someone to drop me off or pick me up for my next hand-modelling shoot. I looked at my hands – my source of income.

‘And don’t feel sorry for yourself,’ he added.

I looked at him. ‘I’m not feeling sorry for myself.’

‘Okay, okay,’ he replied, putting his hands up, the cuff of his electric-blue shirt riding up. ‘Just checking.’

I took a deep breath and got a whiff of Ash’s aftershave. Maybe I was feeling sorry for myself.

‘How’s Sam?’ I asked, glancing at the clock and wanting to forget that my test was in under fifteen minutes.

‘Teenage girls will be teenage girls,’ he replied. ‘But she’s a good girl, really. Just hiding it well. Really well. Either that or she’ll take after her mum,’ he added.

I tried to give him a reassuring smile. ‘No. She’s half you too,’ I replied.

‘I’m not sure that counts for much. But at least my son’s tamer. He might be two years her junior but he’s also about ten years wiser.’

‘He does sound it,’ I replied, remembering all the stories I’d heard about him.

It’s so weird to think that Ashraf has two teenage children when he’s not more than five, maybe six or seven, years older than me. It’d be rude to ask.

‘She probably regrets things,’ I said.

He smiled and brushed something off his black jeans. Mae would have something to say about a man who wears black jeans. ‘So uncool.’ I wish I had been as sure of myself at that age; to be able to say what you think out loud. I wish I was that sure of myself now. My little Mae, who’s able to say what she wants and still manage not to offend anyone.

‘If my ex-wife regrets leaving, then her getting married to another man is a huge mistake,’ he said.

‘Oh. I didn’t know. Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He’s giving her a detached house and an expensive car – all the things I couldn’t. Or didn’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter.’

How did we even get talking about his wife? If you have a driving instructor for long enough you’ll probably end up knowing more about their life than you do your own brother or sister’s. At least, that’s how I feel. I remember when I started my lessons he’d only just left her. She did sound like a bit of a shrew; not that Ash would say as much, but why would you come all the way from Bangladesh to England to marry a man, only to get permanent stay here, then make his life so miserable that he’s forced to leave you?

‘What matters is your test,’ he added. ‘Did your mum tell you to say your prayers?’

I nodded.

‘And your dad told you to check your mirrors?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Mae …?’

‘Gave me carrots.’

‘Good – so everything as usual then.’

I laughed. He must think my family is crazy. They do sound it when I talk about them. Funny that I always feel fonder of them when I tell him about the latest drama in the Amir household. My hands had stopped sweating and when he said it was time to go I didn’t want to reach into my bag for some Primula cheese.

Because we should always remember: what doesn’t kill us, only makes us stronger.