Anita and Me. Meera Syal

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СКАЧАТЬ toilets backed onto untended meadows populated with the carcasses of abandoned agricultural machinery. There was only one working farm now, Dale End farm, bookending the village at the top of the hill, where horses regarded the occasional passers-by with mournful malteser eyes.

      From the crest of the hill, on a clear day, you could see the industrial chimneys of Wolverhampton, smoking like fat men’s cigars, and sometimes glimpse the dark fringes of Cannock Chase, several square miles of thick conifers bristling with secrets and deer, where every so often, forgotten skeletons of ancient victims were discovered by local courting couples. But the horizon gradually disappeared as we marched down the hill towards Mr Ormerod’s shop, down into the valley of…I wished I’d never gone to Sunday School, I wished I did not know the name for what I was now feeling. Sin. One word, three letters, eternal consequences. Unless I confessed all now. I swallowed and looked around, as if for help. There was my home, halfway down the hill, standing on the corner of the crossroads, one of the miners’ tithe cottages huddled around a dirt yard which was the unofficial meeting place for our small community. There was the small overgrown park next to the Yard, where the swings and ricketty slide were watched over by the witch’s hat of an ancient metal roundabout.

      I could see children riding their bikes, screeching in and around the parked cars and lines of washing, practising noisy manoeuvres which threw up clouds of dust, punctuating each skid like exclamation marks. I could see my mother, even at this distance her brown skin glowed like a burnished planet drifting amongst the off-white bedsheets of her neighbours. She was wearing one of her slop-around outfits, a faded Punjabi suit whose billowing trousers rippled in the breeze, mercurial wings fluttering at her ankles. She paused, gathering some bundle from a basket at her feet, and then with one motion shook out a peacock-blue sari which she began tacking to the washing line. It puffed outwards in a resigned sigh between her hands. She looked as if she was holding up a piece of the sky.

      Maybe someone from the Big House would come out and save me. The Big House, as gloomy and roomy as a set from a Hammer horror film, was the only building set apart from the main road and lay at the end of an uneven track which began five hundred yards from our front door. The Big House occupied its own island of private grounds, shielded by high mournful trees and a barbed wire fence. Two ancient, lopsided wooden signs declared NO TRESPASSERS! and BEWARE OF GUARD DOGS! The latter featured a slavering Doberman frothing at the mouth, except the paint had peeled around his muzzle, replacing what were once ferocious teeth with flaking splinters so he looked like he was chewing on a loo brush.

      On windy nights, the trees around the Big House, a thicket of towering chestnuts and poplars which sometimes blocked the sun and filtered damp green light into my bedroom, would talk to me urgently, telling me to open the window, spread my arms and flap over the fields to their waiting branches. At least that’s what I told my mother when she found me crouching on the windowsill with a copy of the TV Times in my hand. I tried to explain what the trees had whispered, that the Golden Shot was a fix and Bob Monkhouse, the devil himself. I was not allowed to watch any television for two weeks after that.

      The Big House, as usual, seemed deserted. I noticed papa was unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fingers around mine as we walked, and I wondered if it would be a good or a bad move to take away my hand. Then I got distracted, noticing a kestrel hovering behind the old pithead of the mine, visible just behind the grey green slates of the Big House’s roof. The Tollington mine had once employed the whole village; it had been feted as a small but plucky contributor to the Black Country’s industrial growth, not as technically impressive as the nearby Cannock Pit, not as imposing and thrusting as the one further afield in Wirley, but a respectably productive enterprise all the same.

      Our adjoining neighbour, Mrs Worrall, had once shown me a yellowing newspaper cutting commemorating the day the Mayor of Wolverhampton had come to visit Tollington mine. It must have been during the war, for some of the grainy bystanders were decked out self-consciously in their Home Guard uniforms and a coalman’s dray was parked in the left hand corner of the photograph, where a shire horse lurked with pricked ears. The mine and the village had been as intertwined as lovers, grateful lovers astonished by their mutual discovery; you could see it in the stiff backs of the men and the proud smiles of the women. Mrs Worrall had pointed to an indistinct blob whose elaborate hat was just visible behind the mayor’s jowly face, ‘Me, that is,’ she said grandly. ‘That hat cost two weeks’ egg rations,’ claiming her moment of fame by association.

      Then the mine suddenly closed down in the late Fifties, no one seemed to know why. A few of the luckier miners were offered temporary jobs in the adjoining pits, but most of the able-bodied men with families had moved on to look for work, leaving behind a gaggle of wheezy old geezers and dozens of stout, dour-faced miners’ widows who had nowhere else to go. It had been a community of tough, broad-armed women and fragile old men until a few new families started moving in, drawn by the country air and dirt-cheap housing – families like us.

      But no one, not even Mrs Todd who was eighty-five and kept her colostomy bag in a sequinned pouch under her pinafore, not even she could remember seeing anyone ever going in or coming out of the Big House since the mayor’s visit. The owner in those days was a ruddy bouncing ball of a man, who in the newspaper cutting is holding onto the mayor’s hand with two fat fists whilst a woman I presumed was his wife, in a shapeless smock, stands at his side looking faintly embarrassed.

      However, a few years later, someone else bought the mine: someone who never cared to mix with his neighbours or his work force but delegated all his duties to faceless officials; someone for whom the pit closure apparently had no repercussions, or at least not any that would make him want to emerge and share the grief and confusion; someone who presumably still lived there because we would occasionally see smoke curling out of the chimney. There were occasional flurries of excitement, when every few months a delivery van from one of the posh stores in Wolverhampton would back up to the peeling gates, and discharge siege-worthy supplies of groceries. Some of the local women would gather around the van, shaking their heads at the sod-off grandeur of the delivery, muttering at the parade of wines, preserves, spices, monogrammed biscuits and extra soft toilet roll, each item taken as a slap in the face from a stuck-up stranger. But despite their unashamed snooping and straining to glimpse through the always drawn curtains, the Big House’s inhabitants remained a mystery so incomprehensible that it was no longer even discussed.

      The kestrel gave out a faint cry, sharp and forlorn all at once, and plummeted from view. Papa quickened his pace. I realised, sadly, that whoever lived in the Big House would not break their solitude to save a little Indian girl who had been caught telling lies.

      We passed Mr Topsy standing outside his postage stamp garden, a riot of blazing rhododendrons and grinning gnomes trying to burst out of their fenced-in borders. Nearly everyone’s garden was like this, making up in content what they lacked in space, every frontage crammed full with miniature ponds and stone clad wishing wells, tiny porches stuffed with armouries of shiny horse brasses and copper plates, a row of Santa’s grottos all year round.

      It was a constant source of embarrassment to me that our front garden was the odd one out in the village, a boring rectangle of lumpy grass bordered with various herbs that mama grew to garnish our Indian meals. ‘This is mint, beti,’ she would say, plucking the top of a plant and crushing the leaves under my nose, ‘This one thunia… coriander I mean…this lemon verbena, you can make tea from this …’ I did not want things growing in our garden that reminded me of yesterday’s dinner; I wanted roses and sunflowers and manicured hedges and fountains where the blackbirds would come and sip. I wanted to see mama in a big hat doing something creative with a pair of pruners. I looked at Mr Topsy’s garden and felt furious. Suddenly, somehow it was his fault that I was standing here in front of him waiting to be tried and punished by a jury of grinning gnomes with no genitals and fishing rods.

      ‘How you doing, Topsy?’ Mr Topsy had christened me thus as he claimed he could not pronounce my name, and I returned the favour by refusing to ever СКАЧАТЬ