Cathy Glass - Run, Mummy, Run

Chapter Two

Aisha had always been destined to achieve. It was her father’s philosophy – to carve a small notch in the world, fuelled by purpose and ambition.

‘Set your sights high, Aisha,’ he often said, ‘and you can have whatever your heart desires. I am the living proof. I came to this country with nothing, now look at me.’

He was right, of course, it was there for all to see, an example to follow – something to aspire to. Aisha remembered how, when she was a child, he would shut himself away in the box room he called a study, and there, bent over his books, he had followed a correspondence course in accountancy. Night after night, weekends and bank holidays, with his meals brought to him on a tray, for five years until he had qualified. Occasionally she’d been allowed to take his supper up to him, a privilege she yearned for, but then doubted she was up to.

‘Don’t go in until he tells you,’ her mother warned each and every time she carried the wooden tray covered with its fine lace tablecloth up the creaking stairs. ‘Put the tray down while you open the door. Use both hands, and don’t rattle the door or you’ll disturb his train of thought.’

Aisha did as she was told; she followed her mother’s instructions exactly, bursting with childish pride but at the same time almost recoiling from the responsibility. Once, the door had stuck, and no matter how hard she’d turned and twisted the knob it wouldn’t open. She panicked and did what her mother had forbidden and rattled the door, then waited, hot and fretting, for her father to open it. She had disturbed his train of thought, he would be annoyed, and she would never be asked to take his tea up again.

But he hadn’t been annoyed. He’d smiled as he opened the door, his tired and bloodshot eyes saying he understood and she was forgiven. Aisha mumbled a child’s apology and passed up the tray. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m pleased for the chance to stretch my legs.’ But the door had immediately closed again and she’d turned and fled, bitterly disappointed. For not only had she failed in the task, but she’d also missed the opportunity of going into the study, and the rare glimpse of the Aladdin’s cave: the huge oak desk which dominated most of the small room and was piled high with papers and books; the spotlamp which her mother had bargained for at a bring-and-buy sale, its beam of light concentrating on the exact spot where he worked, the rest of the room falling into its shadow. And Aisha had known for as long as she could remember that in that room lay the secret of success, and one day she would follow in her father’s footsteps and make him as proud of her as she was of him.

When she won a scholarship to the best girls’ school in the area, her father had built her a desk of her own. He constructed it from nothing, just planks of wood, jars of nails, and a drawing he’d sketched on an old envelope. Aisha thought it was incredible, marvellous, the way he created it. She and her mother had sat in the lounge, night after night, listening to the sawing and hammering coming from the conservatory where he worked. Night after night for weeks and weeks before the final stage came – the gluing, sanding and varnishing, the acrid smell and fine dust floating into the house, despite him keeping the door to the conservatory closed. He toiled away week after week, every evening and weekend; for when her father set his mind to something he did it with complete determination.

He’d had to take the desk up to her bedroom in pieces and assemble it in situ, as it was too large and heavy for the three of them to carry up the stairs and then make the tight right turn at the top of the landing and into Aisha’s bedroom. Once in place there was some final sanding and varnishing – touching up – before her mother vacuumed her bedroom and she was finally allowed to see in. He told Aisha not to look and she placed her hands, palms down, over her eyes as he led her up the stairs and into her room, her mother following. The three of them were quiet and she felt her heart racing as the tension built and her excitement mounted. She wouldn’t peep; she knew better than to peep and spoil the surprise. Only when he had positioned her directly in front of the desk was she allowed to take her hands away and look.

‘Well?’ he asked tentatively. ‘What do you think? We can make some changes if you like. I know it’s not perfect.’ He laughed nervously and waited for her comment, suddenly small and vulnerable in seeking her approval.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Aisha cried. ‘Of course it’s perfect. Thank you so much.’ She kissed his cheek before rushing over to explore the magnificent desk.

It was made of dark mahogany wood with an inlaid pattern of lighter wood around the edge. There was a carved well for pens and pencils, and three drawers either side. She looked at the little brass locks and turned one of the keys.

‘For your personal papers,’ her father said. ‘It was tricky fitting those locks. They were so small, I kept dropping them. I must be getting old.’

Aisha kissed him again and saw how he grew with pride for they all knew that the desk was far more than a table for studying; it was a symbol of achievement, and everything she could and would accomplish.

‘You’ve made your mother and me very proud, Aisha,’ he said. ‘Very proud indeed. And I know you will continue to do so in the future.’

They’d had to buy her school uniform during the summer holiday before Aisha started at the girls’ school in September. The uniform was navy with a bright logo on the blazer pocket; instantly recognizable, and signalling the wearer as someone who was clever enough to go to St Martha’s. The uniform was only available from one leading London store and the three of them had made a special trip into the city, with her father visiting the building society on the way; he preferred to pay in cash, rarely used a chequebook, and refused all offers of credit cards.

‘What we can afford, we will buy,’ he said. ‘And what we can’t, we’ll save for.’ Which seemed to Aisha most sensible and something else she should remember for the future.

After they’d bought the uniform, they had lunch in the store’s restaurant on the top floor. Her mother had hesitated as they walked in and a waiter in a black suit and bow tie greeted them. ‘It’s not for us, Ranjith,’ she whispered, holding back. ‘Let’s find somewhere else.’

Her father insisted. ‘It most certainly is,’ he said, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘This is to celebrate our daughter’s achievement. It will make the day complete.’

But they had sat quietly at the table with its starched white tablecloth and crystal centrepiece; quiet and stiffly upright, with their bags and packages tied with the store’s ribbon tucked well under their chairs. Aisha had felt as conspicuous as her mother obviously did, and wished they’d gone somewhere less grand. When she finally dared to raise her head and steal a glance around, she saw that those seated at the tables nearby were far more at ease than she and her parents were. Others spoke loudly, rested their elbows on the tables, and talked as they ate, all of which was strictly forbidden at the dinner table in her house. It seemed to Aisha that if you were confident enough, then your surroundings were there for your convenience and not the other way around. Only those who were unsure of themselves adhered strictly to the rules of etiquette and convention and worried about what others would think. So she allowed one elbow to rest lightly on the table, looked the waiter in the eye, and pretended to enjoy what her father had ordered – the delicate pink fish with a peculiarly sharp sauce and the neat bundles of thin vegetables arranged along one side of the plate. The three of them had eaten carefully, with her mother repeatedly dabbing the napkin at the corner of her mouth, their silence broken only by her father’s occasional comment about the high standard of the place. Aisha ate and feigned enjoyment for her father’s sake but was grateful when he finally called for the bill and they could leave.