Hanif Kureishi: Collected Stories

Nearby was a coffee shop where he used to go. The manager waved at him, brought over hot chocolate and a cake, and, as usual, complained about the boredom and said he wished for a job like Roy’s. When he’d gone, Roy opened his bag and extracted his newspaper, book, notebook and pens. But he just watched the passers-by. He couldn’t stay long because he remembered that he and Clara had an antenatal class. He wanted to get back, to see what was between them and learn what it might give him. Some people you couldn’t erase from your life.

Azhar’s mother led him to the front of the lower deck, sat him down with his satchel, hurried back to retrieve her shopping, and took her place beside him. As the bus pulled away Azhar spotted Big Billy and his son Little Billy racing alongside, yelling and waving at the driver. Azhar closed his eyes and hoped it was moving too rapidly for them to get on. But they not only flung themselves onto the platform, they charged up the almost empty vehicle hooting and panting as if they were on a fairground ride. They settled directly across the aisle from where they could stare at Azhar and his mother.

At this his mother made to rise. So did Big Billy. Little Billy sprang up. They would follow her and Azhar. With a sigh she sank back down. The conductor came, holding the arm of his ticket machine. He knew the Billys, and had a laugh with them. He let them ride for nothing.

Mother’s grey perfumed glove took some pennies from her purse. She handed them to Azhar who held them up as she had shown him.

‘One and a half to the Three Kings,’ he said.

‘Please,’ whispered Mother, making a sign of exasperation.

‘Please,’ he repeated.

The conductor passed over the tickets and went away.

‘Hold onto them tightly,’ said Mother. ‘In case the inspector gets on.’

Big Billy said, ‘Look, he’s a big boy.’

‘Big boy,’ echoed Little Billy.

‘So grown up he has to run to teacher,’ said Big Billy.

‘Cry baby!’ trumpeted Little Billy.

Mother was looking straight ahead, through the window. Her voice was almost normal, but subdued. ‘Pity we didn’t have time to get to the library. Still, there’s tomorrow. Are you still the best reader in the class?’ She nudged him. ‘Are you?’

‘S’pose so,’ he mumbled.

Every evening after school Mother took him to the tiny library nearby where he exchanged the previous day’s books. Tonight, though, there hadn’t been time. She didn’t want Father asking why they were late. She wouldn’t want him to know they had been in to complain.

Big Billy had been called to the headmistress’s stuffy room and been sharply informed — so she told Mother — that she took a ‘dim view’. Mother was glad. She had objected to Little Billy bullying her boy. Azhar had had Little Billy sitting behind him in class. For weeks Little Billy had called him names and clipped him round the head with his ruler. Now some of the other boys, mates of Little Billy, had also started to pick on Azhar.

‘I eat nuts!’

Big Billy was hooting like an orang-utan, jumping up and down and scratching himself under the arms — one of the things Little Billy had been castigated for. But it didn’t restrain his father. His face looked horrible.

Big Billy lived a few doors away from them. Mother had known him and his family since she was a child. They had shared the same air-raid shelter during the war. Big Billy had been a Ted and still wore a drape coat and his hair in a sculpted quiff. He had black bitten-down fingernails and a smear of grease across his forehead. He was known as Motorbike Bill because he repeatedly built and rebuilt his Triumph. ‘Triumph of the Bill,’ Father liked to murmur as they passed. Sometimes numerous lumps of metal stood on rags around the skeleton of the bike, and in the late evening Big Bill revved up the machine while his record player balanced on the windowsill repeatedly blared out a 45 called ‘Rave On’. Then everyone knew Big Billy was preparing for the annual bank holiday run to the coast. Mother and the other neighbours were forced to shut their windows to exclude the noise and fumes.

Mother had begun to notice not only Azhar’s dejection but also his exhausted and dishevelled appearance on his return from school. He looked as if he’d been flung into a hedge and rolled in a puddle — which he had. Unburdening with difficulty, he confessed the abuse the boys gave him, Little Billy in particular.

At first Mother appeared amused by such pranks. She was surprised that Azhar took it so hard. He should ignore the childish remarks: a lot of children were cruel. Yet he couldn’t make out what it was with him that made people say such things, or why, after so many contented hours at home with his mother, such violence had entered his world.

Mother had taken Azhar’s hand and instructed him to reply, ‘Little Billy, you’re common — common as muck!’

Azhar held onto the words and repeated them continuously to himself. Next day, in a corner with his enemy’s taunts going at him, he closed his eyes and hollered them out. ‘Muck, muck, muck — common as muck you!’

Little Billy was as perplexed as Azhar by the epithet. Like magic it shut his mouth. But the next day Little Billy came back with the renewed might of names new to Azhar: sambo, wog, little coon. Azhar returned to his mother for more words but they had run out.

Big Billy was saying across the bus, ‘Common! Why don’t you say it out loud to me face, eh? Won’t say it, eh?’

‘Nah,’ said Little Billy. ‘Won’t!’

‘But we ain’t as common as a slut who marries a darkie.’

‘Darkie, darkie,’ Little Billy repeated. ‘Monkey, monkey!’

Mother’s look didn’t deviate. But, perhaps anxious that her shaking would upset Azhar, she pulled her hand from his and pointed at a shop.

‘Look.’

‘What?’ said Azhar, distracted by Little Billy murmuring his name.

The instant Azhar turned his head, Big Billy called, ‘Hey! Why don’t you look at us, little lady?’

She twisted round and waved at the conductor standing on his platform. But a passenger got on and the conductor followed him upstairs. The few other passengers, sitting like statues, were unaware or unconcerned.

Mother turned back. Azhar had never seen her like this, ashen, with wet eyes, her body stiff as a tree. Azhar sensed what an effort she was making to keep still. When she wept at home she threw herself on the bed, shook convulsively and thumped the pillow. Now all that moved was a bulb of snot shivering on the end of her nose. She sniffed determinedly, before opening her bag and extracting the scented handkerchief with which she usually wiped Azhar’s face, or, screwing up a corner, dislodged any stray eyelashes around his eye. She blew her nose vigorously but he heard a sob.

Now she knew what went on and how it felt. How he wished he’d said nothing and protected her, for Big Billy was using her name: ‘Yvonne, Yvonne, hey, Yvonne, didn’t I give you a good time that time?’

‘Evie, a good time, right?’ sang Little Billy.

Big Billy smirked. ‘Thing is,’ he said, holding his nose, ‘there’s a smell on this bus.’

‘Pooh!’

‘How many of them are there living in that flat, all squashed together like, and stinkin’ the road out, eatin’ curry and rice!’

There was no doubt that their flat was jammed. Grandpop, a retired doctor, slept in one bedroom, Azhar, his sister and parents in another, and two uncles in the living room. All day big pans of Indian food simmered in the kitchen so people could eat when they wanted. The kitchen wallpaper bubbled and cracked and hung down like ancient scrolls. But Mother always denied that they were ‘like that’. She refused to allow the word ‘immigrant’ to be used about Father, since in her eyes it applied only to illiterate tiny men with downcast eyes and mismatched clothes.