Being Emily. Anne Donovan
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… Peach, please.
Later, when I discovered it should of been natural yoghurt, I was that mortified I couldnae even laugh, but it’s one of the scenes from then that keeps coming back tae me. It seems to sum up who he is, or was, something about the essence of him. He must of thought I was aff my heid offering him fruit yoghurt to put on the terrible chilli, but he never batted an eyelid, tipped the sickly yellow synthetically flavoured stuff over his food and ate it all up.
Later still, when I spent time at his house and realised how wonderful his ma’s cooking was – vegetables with subtle spices, light home-made parathas and minted yoghurt raita – I realised even more just how well-mannered, how kind Jas was.
Even the way their food was presented was nice – no posh, just a cosy family meal, but there was a bright tablecloth and colourful dishes. The thin plastic covering on our placemats was beginning to curl up fae the surface and the twins sat and picked at it through the meal. We didnae have enough plates that werenae chipped and I spent the meal covering mines with the edge of my airm. Their kitchen was warm while ours was draughty. I wondered if this was what it would of been like if it’d been my daddy, no my mammy, that had died. And in my bed that night, when I heard him stumble through the hall, cursing the shoes that someone had left lying, or the hall table he’d stubbed his toe on, I wished it had been.
He wasnae there again at breakfast. Used tae be just Saturdays that happened. Out for a few beers on a Friday, long lie tae make up for the early morning starts through the week. Normal, no like this. I didnae see how he could keep his job if it went on much longer. He’d worked for this wee company for ever and the guys’d been dead sympathetic about Mammy, but they must be getting pissed aff by noo. Every morning it was just the twins and me, trying tae force them to eat a plate of cornflakes and drink some orange juice afore they left for school. They spent that long getting ready in the mornings they didnae have time for breakfast but I’d fill the bowls for them, stand over them while they chewed a few mouthfuls afore gaun back to their room tae tweak their belts intae just the right angle, redo their ties so there was just the right length left dangling. I’d clear the dishes then nag them tae get out on time. I could of left them tae go to school by theirsels – Burnside was nearer than St Phil’s and, with me in sixth year, I just signed in at the office insteady gaun to regi – but I always walked alang the road with them till we had tae go wur separate ways at the traffic lights.
Jas and me had a free period first thing, bagged wur favourite table in the school library, the one in the corner with a view over the playground. There was naebody else in; sixth year could stay hame until they had a class and maist folk did. Jas took out his Chemistry folder and I looked through my notes on Wuthering Heights. The librarian checked her post, replaced a few books on the shelf, then heided intae the wee office behind her desk. There was the sound of a kettle being filled and switched on. Jas smiled at me and I squeezed his haund under the table.
You look tired. He traced his finger in a hauf-circle under my left eye.
Couldnae sleep. Da was at it again.
Not good.
I’m getting worried, Jas. That’s three nights in a row he’s been out this week. And the nights he’s no out he’s sitting in the living room till all hours.
Is there anyone in your family you could tell?
There’s Patrick, but he’d never listen tae him. Anyway, he’s in London.
What about your auntie?
Mibbe, but she has her haunds full with Evie.
Did he ever drink too much when your mum was alive?
Only at the New Year. Or weddings. You know.
Jas nodded.
He’s so different, Jas. I’m scared.
I thought I could tell Jas everything, thought there were nae secrets between us but the previous night, unable to sleep with the knowledge that my da was in the living room alone, drinking hissel intae a stupor, I’d got up, thinking I’d persuade him tae go to bed, offer to make him a cuppa tea. When I reached the door of the living room and looked in, he was slumped in front of the TV with the sound turned doon on some OU programme about learning Spanish. Flamenco dancers snapped their heels silently, tossing their heids proudly above the subtitles. Da, jerked out of a hauf-sleep, turned and looked at me and I saw such darkness in his eyes, such huge swirling pools of unspeakable emotion that I couldnae bear tae look.
Fiona? His voice slurred like a comic drunk.
I turned and scurried back to the warmth of my bed.
How could I share that with Jas? The sour smell of the room, of my da, who didnae wash or change his clothes as he used tae. I’d found stains on his underwear as I was loading the washing machine, made me feel sick, even as I shut my eyes. I scrubbed and scrubbed my haunds afterwards with disinfectant. But that was nothing compared to the voice that was not him and that hellish look in his eyes.
Jas never drank or smoked. A lot of folk thought it was because of his religion, his culture, and that pissed him aff good style. Sent him intae wanny his rants.
See, Fiona, that’s what really gets to me – it’s no racism as such, folk arenae racist in the sense that they want to beat you up or call you names, no they’re really nice – it’s the assumptions they make. Everything you dae is because of your religion or because you’re Asian. If I’m vegetarian it’s because I’m a Sikh, if I don’t drink it’s because I’m Asian. Jeezo, last week I’d on an orange jumper and some wee wifie in the shop said, ‘Is that a special festival the day son?’ and I said, ‘No it was a friggin special offer in Topshop missus.’
Sometimes I get it too with being Catholic. Like when I say there’s four of us they assume my ma and da never used contraception.
Did they?
What?
Use contraception?
Don’t think so, but then how would I know? It wasnae exactly a topic of conversation round the tea table.
Jas laughed. I mind when I was wee I was in the shop with my da and he was putting stock away and there was this box of johnnies and I said, ‘Da can I get some of they big balloons when it’s my birthday?’
What did he say?
He was pure mortified but Ma laughed and said, ‘You only get special balloons like that when you are a big man.’ He was much shyer than her about things like that. See that’s another thing, because she’s an older Asian lady folk think she will be very prim and proper and she’s no. I hate assumptions!
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Consumption.
Consumption who?
Consumption no be done about they assumptions?
My da’s a nice man. That’s what everyone always said about him. Your daddy’s such a nice man. Nice. The cop-out term for anyone you cannae say anything special about. Not a good man. Goodness has depth tae it, good means you think about things, you make decisions about your life, about right or wrong. So does bad. Nice means you bumble along, no giving anyone offence, you’re no specially anything anyone can put their finger on, you’re nice. No one in Wuthering Heights is nice. Good, bad, mad, yes, but no nice.
MISS MULHERN TOOK one of Jas’s photies and held it up in fronty the class, indicated what was good about it.
Look at the line here, she said, tracing it wi the blunt end of a pencil. See how it flows.
If