Alexander Khan - Orphan of Islam

Ayesha took our hands and led us into the kitchen. ‘What’ve they been feeding you out there?’ she said. ‘Goat and more goat, I reckon. Come on, I’ve made some mincemeat with potatoes and peas. That’ll warm you up. Do you want a chapati while you’re waiting?’

We nodded, still trying to get used to the sound of Pashto underpinned by flat Lancashire vowels. Ayesha lit the hob and placed the cooking pot on top, then started singing in English.

‘Da da, da da, da da, da-da, tainted love, woah-oh, tainted love!’ She danced around the tiny kitchen, banging a spatula on the work surface to the rhythm of the song. We looked at her, wide-eyed in amazement. We hadn’t heard any music at all in Pakistan. No one ever sang or danced like this.

‘Guess what?’ Ayesha whispered. ‘I’ve got a radio in my bedroom. It’s true – Parveen in Alma Street lent it me. It’s got an earphone so no one knows you’re listening. I like the charts on a Sunday night. Do you like them too? What’s your favourite song? I like Soft Cell, Duran Duran, the Human League – all of them. You can have a listen if you want.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, not knowing what I’d agreed to.

‘It’s OK. Just don’t tell Mum. I’ll get done if she finds out …’

‘Finds out what?’ Fatima was standing at the kitchen door, glaring at her 15-year-old daughter. She must’ve been listening in when Ayesha was singing.

She turned to me. ‘What’s she been saying to you? Tell me.’

‘I dunno,’ I said, trying not to look at Ayesha. ‘I couldn’t understand it.’

‘Of course you couldn’t,’ Fatima said sarcastically. Then she pointed at Ayesha. ‘If I catch you singing that rubbish again, I’ll put you out of this house. Nice Pakistani girls don’t sing. Is that clear?’

Ayesha looked at the floor, then silently turned her back on her mother and stirred the contents of the pot.

‘Upstairs, you two,’ Fatima said to me and Jasmine, ‘and I’ll show you where you’re sleeping. It’ll be a squash, but you’ll just have to get used to it.’

The house was tiny: two rooms and a kitchen downstairs and two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. For a couple with one child, it would’ve been just about adequate. But not for two adults and seven children. Yasir, Fatima and Dilawar’s elder son, slept in the downstairs front room. He was due to get married in a few months and would then move out, but for the moment he was living at home and working in the family shop with his dad. Fatima and Dilawar slept in the front bedroom upstairs. The back bedroom was shared by Ayesha, Tamam, Majeeda and Maisa. And now there were two more occupants.

Fatima indicated Tamam’s bed. ‘You’re in there,’ she said, ‘and your sister can get in with Majeeda and Maisa. Yes?’

Jasmine pulled at my sleeve. ‘I don’t like it here, Moham,’ she said. ‘It smells funny. I don’t want to share a bed. Why can’t we go with Dad?’

‘Because you can’t,’ snapped Fatima in her shrill high-pitched voice. The tone of that voice, forever shrieking and shouting around that tiny house, would grate on me in the months ahead. Even now, if I close my eyes I can still hear it, like fingernails going down a blackboard.

‘This isn’t a hotel,’ Fatima continued, ‘despite what your father seems to think. Anyway, he’s not going to be around for a while, so I’m in charge. And in this house, what I say goes. Got it?’

We nodded meekly.

Fatima threw our pathetic little suitcases onto the beds. ‘Dinner will be ready in 10 minutes,’ she said, walking out of the bedroom. ‘Get your hands and faces washed now.’

That first evening in Nile Street was awful. Dilawar and Yasir knew we were coming to stay, but made no effort to make us feel welcome when they arrived home from the shop. All they wanted was their dinner, and they didn’t seem at all happy to have to share it with two new mouths on the other side of the table. But Dad was there, so they said nothing. Fatima was all smiles in front of Dad, reassuring him that of course she’d look after us and yes, we’d be fine staying there and the other kids would love to have two new people to play with. The sly looks and digs in the ribs we were getting from around that cramped table suggested otherwise. Only Ayesha seemed to understand how weird it felt for us to be back in England. She rubbed our heads and gave us extra little pieces of chapati when she thought no one was looking.

‘We might make a half-decent Pakistani wife out of you after all,’ commented Fatima, who had noticed the extra attention she was giving us.

When the meal was over, the men and a few of the children, me and Jasmine included, sat in the back room. Fatima, Ayesha and Majeeda stayed in the kitchen to clean up. The men lit cigarettes, sat back on the settees, which faced each other along two walls, and chatted among themselves. There was no TV set, so we played on the floor.

After a while, Dad stood up. ‘Time I was off,’ he said, looking at his watch.

He bent down and kissed us both.

‘Now, you two behave for your Aunty Fatima and Uncle Dilawar,’ he said. ‘I’ll be gone for a few weeks now. I’ve got some work on. Remember, be good. No playing up.’

He shook hands with Dilawar and Yasir and shouted a goodbye to Fatima. The front door banged and he was gone.

Again we were alone. With family, yes, but without the parents we needed and wanted to hold us, look after us, keep us safe.

The false smile Fatima had put on for Dad soon disappeared. The shrill tone was again present in her voice when she ordered us all upstairs to get washed and changed for bed. There were the usual bedtime moans and groans from her children, but Fatima was having none of it. We were hustled up the narrow staircase to the bedroom, Tamam and Majeeda leading the charge.

Majeeda was first into the bathroom, banging the door. Tamam stood outside, shouting and shouting for his sister to hurry up. In the bedroom, Maisa flung Jasmine’s suitcase on the floor and climbed onto the bed, stretching out her legs in a defiant display of ownership. Finally, Majeeda left the bathroom and got into bed, pushing Maisa against the wall. There was barely a ruler’s width of space for poor Jasmine. She looked at me with frightened eyes and I squeezed her hand. I was just as afraid, but didn’t want to let her know.

Tamam came into the room. He looked as though he’d rather share a bed with a crocodile.

‘Get in,’ he ordered, ‘and move right up. If you even breathe, I’ll boot you one!’

I did as I was told and squeezed myself as far as I could against the wall. I stared at the cheap torn lime-green wallpaper for as long as possible until the light went off. I was tired from the long flight and journey up from Heathrow, and soon fell asleep. Less than an hour later the light pinged on again. There was no lampshade, and the bare bulb seemed to penetrate every corner of that tiny claustrophobic bedroom.

‘Who’s nicked my radio?! Come on, you’re not going back to sleep till you tell me!’

Ayesha was furiously rummaging under beds, pulling sheets off sleeping children and pushing their tousled heads roughly aside so she could look under the pillows. Maisa started to wail and was quickly silenced by a thump in the guts from a grumpy Majeeda. Jasmine fell out of bed in the chaos, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. She started to cry. Tamam shouted at his oldest sister that he hadn’t got it.

The noise brought Fatima to the foot of the stairs.

‘What’s going on?!’ she screamed. ‘Get back in those beds and go to sleep. If I hear any more noise, I’ll come up there and beat the lot of you!’

Instantly there was silence and I knew she meant what she said.