Anita and Me. Meera Syal

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СКАЧАТЬ Worrall stood nearby in the requisite Tollington pose for witnesses at a disaster, one hand cradling the cheek, the other on the hip, and a slow, disbelieving rhythmic shake of the head. No one seemed to notice Misty flung in a corner of the field, her muzzle just visible above the clover stalks, emitting this terrible, haunting moan for help. And now I heard it again and I knew who was making it and I was afraid.

      ‘Can I have lemon curd in my one, Mrs Worrall?’ I jabbered, eager to distract her. She did not answer but wiped her hands on her pinafore and said, ‘Come and say hello to Mr Worrall.’ She opened the door leading into the sitting room and I blinked rapidly, trying to adjust my eyes to the gloom. The curtains were drawn, split by a bar of red sunset light where they did not quite meet, and the small black and white television set sitting on the dining table was on full volume. Opportunity Knocks was on, one of my very favourite programmes where ordinary people who felt they had a great untapped talent could try their luck at singing, impressions, unicycling whilst juggling hatchets, whatever, and if the great British public voted them the best of the acts, could return again and again every week, gathering more acclaim, accolades and possibly bookings at dizzying venues like the Wolverhampton Grand until they were finally knocked off first place by the new young pretender to the variety throne. The unicyclist is dead, long live the fat man from Barnet doing Harold Wilson impressions!

      From the first time I watched that show, I knew that this could be my most realistic escape route from Tollington, from ordinary girl to major personality in one easy step. But I’d never seen anyone who wasn’t white on the show, not so far, and was worried that might count against me. Hughie Green was doing his famous one-eye-open, one-eyebrow-cocked look right down the camera and he announced, ‘Let’s see how our musical muscle man, Tony Holland, does on our clapometer!’ An oiled, bulging bloke in micro swimming trunks appeared briefly and rippled his belly muscles into animal shapes as the audience whooped and hollered and the clapometer began at fifty and rose and rose, climbing slowly along until it nudged ninety and there were beads of sweat forming on Tony’s undulating diaphragm.

      Mrs Worrall suddenly switched the TV off and another wail of protest came from a far dark corner. ‘Later. Say hello to Mrs K’s littl’un first, eh?’ She pushed me forward and I suddenly became aware of the smell of the room which seemed to be at one with the gloom, the smell of a sick room, unaired and lonely, of damp pyjamas steaming, sticky-sided medicine bottles, spilled tinned soup and disinfectant under which there hovered the clinging tang of old, dried-in pee. A shape took form before me, thin useless legs in clean striped pyjamas, the toes curled and turned inwards, passive hands with fingers rigid and frozen as claws, a sunken chest making a bowed tent of the pyjama top, and finally Mr Worrall’s face, wide blue-blue staring eyes and a mouth permanently open, asking for something, wanting to talk, with the bewildered, demanding expression of an unjustly punished child.

      Mr Worrall moaned loudly again, nodding his head vigorously, a few drops of spit fell onto his chin which Mrs Worrall expertly wiped away with her pinafore hem. She took up his hand and placed it on mine, his fingers seemed to rustle like dry twigs but, amazingly, I could feel the pump and surge of his heartbeat throbbing through his palm. I wanted to pull my hand away but I looked up to see Mrs Worrall’s eyes glittering behind their bottle bottom frames. ‘Hello Mr Worrall,’ I said faintly. Mr Worrall jerked his head back violently and gave a yelp. ‘He likes you,’ Mrs Worrall said, the glimmer of a smile playing round her mouth. ‘It was the shells. In the war. He got too close. He was always a nosey bugger.’

      I felt it was maybe alright to pull my hand away now, and I carefully replaced his back onto his lap, like replacing a brittle ornament after dusting. Mr Worrall jerked forward, I felt his breath on my face, it was surprisingly sweet-smelling, like aniseed, like Misty’s warm steamy mouth used to smell. ‘That’s enough now,’ said Mrs Worrall, pushing him back into his chair and gathering his blanket around his knees. ‘It’s nearly time for your wash. You want a wash, eh?’ Mr Worrall seemed tall, even sitting down. He must have been over six foot before the shells got him. Now I knew two war veterans, him and Anita’s dad. I felt annoyed that my papa had not done anything as remotely exciting or dangerous in his youth, or if he had he’d kept it quiet.

      ‘How do you get Mr Worrall upstairs? Have you got a lift or something?’ I asked as she busied herself with removing his socks. ‘Ooh, we never use the upstairs, do we? No. Not been up there for twenty-two years.’ My gaze travelled to the small door leading onto the stairs, the same as in our house, which fooled people into thinking there was another bigger room leading off from the lounge. It was padlocked from the outside, its hinges rusted.

      All this time when I had run up and down our landing and imagined the Worralls ambling about on the other side of the wall, tutting about the noise, our adjoining bookends, I had never realised that next door were empty rooms, cobweb-filled, echoing, unused rooms. I felt queasy, my hunger had become nausea; Mrs Worrall was attempting to kneel, her fat knees cracking, and I suddenly saw what the last twenty-two years of her life must have been, this endless uncomplaining attendance of a broken, unresponsive body, the wiping of spittle and shit, the back-breaking tugging and loading and pulling and carrying, all the nights in front of the television whilst the Deirdre Rutters and the Glenys Lowbridges were putting on lipstick and waltzing off to pubs and bingo and dances and Mrs Worrall’s big treat was an extra lemon puff in front of Crossroads, whilst her husband dozed off.

      Not all the English were selfish, like mama sometimes said, but then again, I did not think of Mrs Worrall as English. She was a symbol of something I’d noticed in some of the Tollington women, a stoic muscular resistance which made them ask for nothing and expect less, the same resignation I heard in the voices of my Aunties when they spoke of back home or their children’s bad manners or the wearying monotony of their jobs. My Aunties did not rage against fate or England when they swapped misery tales, they put everything down to the will of Bhagwan, their karma, their just deserts inherited from their last reincarnation which they had to live through and solve with grace and dignity. In the end, they knew God was on their side; I got the feeling that most of the Tollington women assumed that He had simply forgotten them.

      ‘I’ve got to go,’ I mumbled, backing away on Bambi legs, ‘Mum’s waiting …’

      Mrs Worrall wordlessly helped me into the kitchen which now smelt like a bakery, yeasty and welcoming and warm. She retrieved the metal tray from the oven on which stood ten perfect tartlets and one which resembled a relief map of Africa. Nevertheless, she filled it with lemon curd from a twist-top jar, and threw in another two tarts for mama and papa, warning me, ‘Wait a minute, or that curd’ll tek the skin off yer tongue.’

      I carried the three trophies on a napkin carefully to the door, and then paused to call out, ‘Bye Mr Worrall!’ as cheerily as I could manage. I did not expect an answer but I felt Mrs Worrall’s eyes gently guide me to my back door.

       4

      Mama and Papa were sitting on the mock leather yellow settee, a bad idea if you wanted to have a serious or unnoticed conversation because your every shift would be accompanied by a symphony of leathery farts and squeaks. It was especially thrilling to welcome a new overweight relative to the house, who would invariably be received in our ‘front’ room with its tie-dye Indian hangings and brass ornaments, as opposed to the ‘lounge’, our telly and flop room next to it with its worn flowery suite and ricketty dining table. I got hours of pleasure seeing corpulent uncles parp their way through their starters or alarmed roly-poly aunties vainly hold onto their sari petticoats as they slowly slipped backwards into the marshmallow cushions.

      So I knew, when I entered, by the hurried scrapings and scuffles, that mama and papa had been sitting together and talking about me. I decided to adopt my cute over-achiever face as I held my jam tarts aloft. ‘Mrs Worrall taught me to bake. Next СКАЧАТЬ