whispered conversations that stopped when she came into the room. She should have expected it, though. Dulal wanted to get married. He was twenty-five and needed a wife, but what family would let their daughter marry a man who couldn’t control his own sister? Once they started asking around they’d soon find out about Beauty’s failed marriage. And besides, he’d never find a decent wife, born here, unless the old man arranged it, and as long as she refused to bring the mullah into thecountry, the old man swore that he wouldn’t. He had promised her to Habib Choudhury long ago, and so far he hadn’t been able to make Beauty keep his word.
Maybe she was wrong. Perhaps
Bhai-sahb
was just tired of fighting. He knew she’d been through a lot. He still asked her advice on what job to take, how to put up with Paki comments at work, or how to ask a girl out – not that he ever did.
Dulal stood up and left the kitchen, shutting himself in the sitting room with the old man. Faisal went upstairs, not sure what his brother’s silence meant. But Beauty understood. Was that why her mum was still in bed? The talk would come later that night, before
Bhai-sahb
went to work.
Beauty carried on stirring the meat with the melting onions and decided to make some dal. There was nowhere but the kitchen for her to go. Faisal would hear if she went to Sharifa’s room and tell her to get out. They didn’t want a
sinnal
like her influencing their little sister. Sharifa might turn into a slapper, too.
She finished cooking, laid out the dishes behind her on the sideboards, sat down at the kitchen table and waited for them to come in.
Why do they always call me a slapper? Sinnal this, slapper that. Magi, too. And tramp, tramp, tramp.
You went out with that Sikh boy.
I didn’t even kiss him! What would they do if I wasn’t a virgin like Fatima
,
or Lucy, Uncle Abdul’s daughter? Her husband found out on her wedding night!
They’d tell you to use honey so he wouldn’t know.
Beauty wasn’t sure how the honey helped, but a cousin-sister had once told her your husband wouldn’t know that you weren’t a virgin if you used it.
It makes it small again, aynit. Down there
.
*
The door to the sitting room opened and the old man appeared. He stared at her from the end of the corridor, before turning to go upstairs.
So what they gonna say this time?
The mullah’s pervert brother’s hassling the old man here and his family’s hassling from back home. It’s shaming him.
Beauty closed the kitchen door and sat down again. She put her foot on the chair, continued biting her fingernails and listened as the toilet flushed.
They went on at me night and day. Took me to imams, put curses on me – khalla zadu – to make me say yes. The old man said he’d kill himself.
What was I supposed to do? They told me to say yes – hobbul – and I could go back to England the next day. Thass how I got married, Muslim way, but I didn’t let the mullah anywhere near me. They told him to wait, so he backed off.
And she had cooked, cleaned and looked after her uncle Mukhtar and his family for five years, washing their clothes by hand.
Seventeen people! Even his slave started bossing me, after he got her pregnant – Allah give him guna one day.
Then they thought she’d gone mad so they left her alone.
Aynt I?
Al-lh, what am I gonna do now?
Get out!
The kitchen door opened.
‘Crazy bitch is talking to herself again,’ Dulal Miah said over his shoulder to the old man.
6
Somewhere in North London, Kate Morgan jerked awake in her Victorian end-of-terrace ground floor flat with original features, and reached for her mobile phone.
‘Bastard,’ she said. Seven o’clock in the evening and he hadn’t even bothered to send her a text message. She must have nodded off waiting for him to ring back.
Kate yawned and stretched. Emotional and physical exhaustion were typical symptoms of depression, she’d read, and her therapist had confirmed
Maybe she was wrong. Perhaps
Bhai-sahb
was just tired of fighting. He knew she’d been through a lot. He still asked her advice on what job to take, how to put up with Paki comments at work, or how to ask a girl out – not that he ever did.
Dulal stood up and left the kitchen, shutting himself in the sitting room with the old man. Faisal went upstairs, not sure what his brother’s silence meant. But Beauty understood. Was that why her mum was still in bed? The talk would come later that night, before
Bhai-sahb
went to work.
Beauty carried on stirring the meat with the melting onions and decided to make some dal. There was nowhere but the kitchen for her to go. Faisal would hear if she went to Sharifa’s room and tell her to get out. They didn’t want a
sinnal
like her influencing their little sister. Sharifa might turn into a slapper, too.
She finished cooking, laid out the dishes behind her on the sideboards, sat down at the kitchen table and waited for them to come in.
Why do they always call me a slapper? Sinnal this, slapper that. Magi, too. And tramp, tramp, tramp.
You went out with that Sikh boy.
I didn’t even kiss him! What would they do if I wasn’t a virgin like Fatima
,
or Lucy, Uncle Abdul’s daughter? Her husband found out on her wedding night!
They’d tell you to use honey so he wouldn’t know.
Beauty wasn’t sure how the honey helped, but a cousin-sister had once told her your husband wouldn’t know that you weren’t a virgin if you used it.
It makes it small again, aynit. Down there
.
*
The door to the sitting room opened and the old man appeared. He stared at her from the end of the corridor, before turning to go upstairs.
So what they gonna say this time?
The mullah’s pervert brother’s hassling the old man here and his family’s hassling from back home. It’s shaming him.
Beauty closed the kitchen door and sat down again. She put her foot on the chair, continued biting her fingernails and listened as the toilet flushed.
They went on at me night and day. Took me to imams, put curses on me – khalla zadu – to make me say yes. The old man said he’d kill himself.
What was I supposed to do? They told me to say yes – hobbul – and I could go back to England the next day. Thass how I got married, Muslim way, but I didn’t let the mullah anywhere near me. They told him to wait, so he backed off.
And she had cooked, cleaned and looked after her uncle Mukhtar and his family for five years, washing their clothes by hand.
Seventeen people! Even his slave started bossing me, after he got her pregnant – Allah give him guna one day.
Then they thought she’d gone mad so they left her alone.
Aynt I?
Al-lh, what am I gonna do now?
Get out!
The kitchen door opened.
‘Crazy bitch is talking to herself again,’ Dulal Miah said over his shoulder to the old man.
6
Somewhere in North London, Kate Morgan jerked awake in her Victorian end-of-terrace ground floor flat with original features, and reached for her mobile phone.
‘Bastard,’ she said. Seven o’clock in the evening and he hadn’t even bothered to send her a text message. She must have nodded off waiting for him to ring back.
Kate yawned and stretched. Emotional and physical exhaustion were typical symptoms of depression, she’d read, and her therapist had confirmed
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