Kate Pullinger - Landing Gear

What was this film about, exactly? Family. Sort of. Belonging. Not belonging. Harriet. Her film was about Harriet, really. And the falling man.

She’d rehearsed them a bit, over dinner at their house, tried to give them a few tips on how to talk to the camera. Not Harriet, of course, she was a pro, but everyone else. She’d told them to talk freely, to open their mouths and let the words fall out. “I’ll edit,” she said, “I’ll cut and crop and make sure you look and sound your best.” They’d looked at her, en masse, from around the table—Harriet, Michael, Jack and Yacub—their faces grave. “Oh come on!” she said. “It’ll be fun!” She could see they did not believe her.

But now everything was ready. She stood by the window. Winter was closing in and the trees across the swath of southwest London were mostly bare. Yacub was coming on his own today; she’d have to wait till he arrived before she could finalize the lighting. She moved around the room, adjusting and readjusting.

The doorbell rang. She buzzed to let him in.

He was dressed neatly, everything ironed, his button-down shirt looking brand new. He kept swallowing hard as though his throat was dry, and he couldn’t seem to look her in the eye. These days, most people were keen to be filmed—people filmed each other all the time—and she’d forgotten that not everyone felt comfortable sitting in front of a camera.

She filmed him standing beside the window. She pointed out the supermarket and asked him to look in that direction. He obliged. Her efforts to help him relax with tea and biscuits and chatter did not work. So she sat him down. He was sweating under the strong light, so she offered him a bit of powder and makeup, and he submitted to her ministrations. He looked good on camera. She framed him through the viewfinder, his brown skin and black hair, his white shirt contrasting well against the burnt red of the sofa, the dark green of the wall, the whole thing warm and serious. They were ready.

“I’m going to turn on the camera and keep filming while we talk. You can say whatever you like, you can tell me whatever you want. Don’t worry if you make a mistake—just start over again. I’ll edit the film and cut out any mistakes. All right?”

He nodded.

“Let’s test the sound levels.”

“What?”

“Say something to me so I can check the sound.”

He looked around the room. He looked at the floor. “That’s a nice carpet,” he said.

“It’s a flying carpet,” she said. “I’ll lend it to you if you like.”

Yacub laughed.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s start at the beginning. How do you like living in England?”

He took a deep breath, looked at the camera and began to speak. “England is kind of a… a funny country, but I’m getting used to it. It’s not as funny as Pakistan, mind you.” He smiled.

Emily smiled back, encouraging him.

“Actually, to tell the truth, I steer clear of ‘England’ and stay in London. Michael took me to Leicester with him once, on business, a day trip. Have you been to Leicester?”

“I’m going to try to keep myself out of this,” Emily replied.

“What?” said Yacub.

“I’m not in the film. It’s just you talking. Anything I say will be edited out.”

“Oh.”

Yacub looked pained, so Emily decided she’d better reply to his question, try to get him to relax. “I’ve been to Leicester, for work,” she said, “but I’ve never spent any time there. On the last series of Ginger we had two Asian girls from Leicester, so I went up to talk to them before we started filming. But I don’t know the city.”

“Why do you take people who dye their hair red as well? Their hair was hennaed.”

“I know,” said Emily, “it doesn’t seem right. But otherwise it is very… well, culturally limiting.”

“Too many Scottish people.”

“Yes,” Emily said.

Yacub was satisfied.

“Start your sentence again.”

He looked puzzled.

“You were saying you went to Leicester with Michael?” Emily prompted.

He adjusted his posture and began to speak once again. “I went to Leicester on a day trip and was shocked by all the desi midlanders, their clothes grey and black, none of the colours of their homelands—or their parents’ homelands, grandparents’ homelands, great-great-great-grandparents’ homelands either.” He stopped, as though momentarily awed. “Anyway, I decided against going to study in Leicester and stayed in London, which as far as I’m concerned is a good thing. London is the place to be.”

Emily held her breath, willing Yacub to keep talking.

“The Smiths took me in. They have been so kind to me. It’s as though because they were at war with each other—” Yacub stopped himself and looked annoyed at what he’d said. “Despite Jack almost drowning, and the whole business with you—”

Emily interrupted Yacub. “Don’t mention me.”

“Why not?”

“Just try not to mention me. If you do need to mention me, refer to me as Emily.”

“Oh,” said Yacub. “Okay.”

“Okay. You were talking about the Smiths and how kind they were despite the fact that they had troubles of their own.”

“Did I say troubles? I don’t think I said that.” Yacub adjusted his posture, doing up the top button of his shirt, then undoing it again. “It was as though they had to focus their kindness somewhere, and so they focused it on me. While they were busy being…” he paused to choose his words, “cross with each other, they were nice to me.”

He opened his mouth to continue to speak, and then stopped. He rearranged himself on the sofa, sitting up straight, lining up the creases in his trousers.

“My mother used to tell me tales of djinn and faeries. I loved her stories. Although I’m young, I’ve already had many lives—my father’s village, Karachi, Dubai and now London, England. And that’s just me. If we add in my sister, and Mrs. Harriet, and Michael and Jack and,” he paused again and blinked slowly, “Emily—already that is too many stories. There is no room for all these stories.

“I’m studying now, which is what I’ve always wanted to do. However, because my education was so…” he turned toward the window, “brief, I have a long way to go before I will arrive at that splendid day and qualify. In the meantime, I am catching up, taking exams, working on my English. Michael knew a lawyer and they helped me sort out my papers. I have a job now. I send money home to Raheela—that’s my sister. I pay my rent to the Smiths. I’m a good worker. I work at a coffee counter in Heathrow, Terminal 5. In fact, I’m a manager there now.” A look of amazement flitted across his face. “A manager.”

“That’s great, Yacub, really great. Thank you.”

“We’re stopping?”

“No, no, I just want to change the direction of the conversation a little.” Emily looked at Yacub through the camera’s viewfinder. The lighting was still fine. “Let’s start from the beginning.”

“The beginning?” Yacub asked. “I—I’m not sure—I—” He cleared his throat. “The first person I met when I arrived in London was Mrs. Harriet.”

“Pakistan,” said Emily. “Your life in Pakistan before you arrived in England.”

“Mrs. Harriet and Jack’s father have been exceedingly kind to me. They could not have been any kinder.”

Emily calmed herself. Let him talk, she thought. Let him say whatever he wants, whatever he needs. Edit later.

“I did not want to come to England. I thought I was travelling to the USA. I wanted to go to America for a new life.”

“What’s wrong with life in Pakistan?” Emily asked.

Yacub gave her a look of disbelief.