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Authors: Narinder Dhami
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giggled.
“Oh, behave,” I said. “I thought we'd try Mrs. Dhaliwal.”
Mrs. Dhaliwal lived a few streets away, and her mission in life was to get people married off. She always carried a huge file, which was full of the photos and personal details of people who were looking for husbands and wives, and she'd show it around at every possible opportunity. Mrs. D could smell an unmarried person a mile off. In fact, I was surprised she hadn't homed in on Auntie already.
“And what do we say to her?” Jazz asked.
“Nothing much,” I replied. “We just get her to come round for tea: she'll bring her file because she always does, and then we're away.”
“It can't possibly be that simple,” Jazz said doubtfully.
And, of course, it wasn't.
The first thing we had to do was get our hands on Mrs. Dhaliwal. Even though she only lived a couple of streets away, she was really hard to pin down because she was second only to Auntie in the interfering stakes. If she wasn't in the minimarket telling Mr. Attwal how to arrange his shelves, then she was visiting all the Indian families in the area, trying to arrange marriages. We didn't want to knock on her door and just invite her over, because that would have looked too suspicious. And anyway, she was never in.
It took us four days of hanging around and stalking Mrs. Dhaliwal's family to find out her movements, and by the end of it we were three nervous wrecks. It was another bad week, too. At school, a stressed-out Ms. Woods threw a fit and announced that the assembly would not be taking place. Rumor had it that Mr. Grimwade had to get down on his bended knees to get her to change her mind. At home, Auntie was sweeping through the place like a tornado, destroying everything in her path. She was really going for the unpopularity vote.
One night Geena had had a standup row with Auntie over the time she'd got back from a mate's house and had then got into trouble with Dad too when Auntie snitched on her. Geena was prepared to murder her, and Jazz and I were quite ready to help with the disposal of the body. These were desperate times.
“Here comes Mrs. D,” Geena whispered.
We popped out from behind our hedge. We were on our way to school, but we'd been hiding there for the last ten minutes, waiting for Mrs. Dhaliwal to come along. We'd discovered that she'd just started a part-time job in the local library. It hadn't been easy finding out which shifts she worked, but we'd managed it, thanks to Geena chatting up Mrs. D's son.
Mrs. Dhaliwal was walking briskly along the road, her green sari swishing around her ankles. She was tall and square, and she wore her hair up in a fat bun, like a cottage loaf. Jazz said she had antennae hidden under there that beamed in on people who weren't married.
“Hello, girls,” Mrs. Dhaliwal beamed. “On your way to school?”
We smiled and nodded.
“I hear your aunt's staying with you,” she went on eagerly.
I swear I saw that huge bun of hair twitch.
“Yes, she is,” Jazz agreed.
“And your father tells me she's not married yet,” Mrs. Dhaliwal went on. She smiled widely, a cat preparing to pounce on a mouse.
“No, she isn't,” I said. “And she'd
love
to meet you.”
“Why don't you pop round and say hello to Auntie?” Geena suggested.
“I'll do that,” Mrs. Dhaliwal said. There was a faraway look in her eyes, and I guessed that she was running through her file of possible candidates. With anyluck, she'd find the perfect match. Then our troubles would be over.
“Yes!” Jazz said with satisfaction, as Mrs. Dhaliwal went on her way. “Auntie won't know what's hit her.”
“Amber, wait for me!” Kim was rushing down the street toward us.
“How's things?” she asked. “Is your auntie still getting on your nerves?”
“Is the grass green?” replied Geena.
“But we've got a plan to get rid of her,” Jazz added. “We're going to find her a husband.”
Kim looked confused as she took that in. “But what
“Oh, behave,” I said. “I thought we'd try Mrs. Dhaliwal.”
Mrs. Dhaliwal lived a few streets away, and her mission in life was to get people married off. She always carried a huge file, which was full of the photos and personal details of people who were looking for husbands and wives, and she'd show it around at every possible opportunity. Mrs. D could smell an unmarried person a mile off. In fact, I was surprised she hadn't homed in on Auntie already.
“And what do we say to her?” Jazz asked.
“Nothing much,” I replied. “We just get her to come round for tea: she'll bring her file because she always does, and then we're away.”
“It can't possibly be that simple,” Jazz said doubtfully.
And, of course, it wasn't.
The first thing we had to do was get our hands on Mrs. Dhaliwal. Even though she only lived a couple of streets away, she was really hard to pin down because she was second only to Auntie in the interfering stakes. If she wasn't in the minimarket telling Mr. Attwal how to arrange his shelves, then she was visiting all the Indian families in the area, trying to arrange marriages. We didn't want to knock on her door and just invite her over, because that would have looked too suspicious. And anyway, she was never in.
It took us four days of hanging around and stalking Mrs. Dhaliwal's family to find out her movements, and by the end of it we were three nervous wrecks. It was another bad week, too. At school, a stressed-out Ms. Woods threw a fit and announced that the assembly would not be taking place. Rumor had it that Mr. Grimwade had to get down on his bended knees to get her to change her mind. At home, Auntie was sweeping through the place like a tornado, destroying everything in her path. She was really going for the unpopularity vote.
One night Geena had had a standup row with Auntie over the time she'd got back from a mate's house and had then got into trouble with Dad too when Auntie snitched on her. Geena was prepared to murder her, and Jazz and I were quite ready to help with the disposal of the body. These were desperate times.
“Here comes Mrs. D,” Geena whispered.
We popped out from behind our hedge. We were on our way to school, but we'd been hiding there for the last ten minutes, waiting for Mrs. Dhaliwal to come along. We'd discovered that she'd just started a part-time job in the local library. It hadn't been easy finding out which shifts she worked, but we'd managed it, thanks to Geena chatting up Mrs. D's son.
Mrs. Dhaliwal was walking briskly along the road, her green sari swishing around her ankles. She was tall and square, and she wore her hair up in a fat bun, like a cottage loaf. Jazz said she had antennae hidden under there that beamed in on people who weren't married.
“Hello, girls,” Mrs. Dhaliwal beamed. “On your way to school?”
We smiled and nodded.
“I hear your aunt's staying with you,” she went on eagerly.
I swear I saw that huge bun of hair twitch.
“Yes, she is,” Jazz agreed.
“And your father tells me she's not married yet,” Mrs. Dhaliwal went on. She smiled widely, a cat preparing to pounce on a mouse.
“No, she isn't,” I said. “And she'd
love
to meet you.”
“Why don't you pop round and say hello to Auntie?” Geena suggested.
“I'll do that,” Mrs. Dhaliwal said. There was a faraway look in her eyes, and I guessed that she was running through her file of possible candidates. With anyluck, she'd find the perfect match. Then our troubles would be over.
“Yes!” Jazz said with satisfaction, as Mrs. Dhaliwal went on her way. “Auntie won't know what's hit her.”
“Amber, wait for me!” Kim was rushing down the street toward us.
“How's things?” she asked. “Is your auntie still getting on your nerves?”
“Is the grass green?” replied Geena.
“But we've got a plan to get rid of her,” Jazz added. “We're going to find her a husband.”
Kim looked confused as she took that in. “But what
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