Gravel Heart(19)

The following morning, which was a Sunday, Uncle Amir rang my mother and passed the phone to me so that I could speak to her. He made the gesture casually, but I could see he was exuberant with excitement. After listening to my self-conscious mumblings for a moment or two – I had no previous experience of speaking on the phone and felt an instant discomfort with the disembodied voice – he took the receiver from me and gave my mother a full account of my arrival, piling on the clichés and laughing at my provincial awkwardnesses at the airport. After the phone call he asked me if my room was comfortable and watched me intently as I babbled my gratitude. That evening I had my first-ever encounter with a knife-and-fork. I gave everyone a start so I could follow their example but they were wise to me. Uncle Amir laughed out loud at my clumsiness while Auntie Asha suppressed her smiles. Even the children joined in with their giggles, Ahmed who was eight and was called Eddie and Khadija who was seven and was called Kady. I smiled too because even I knew about the unavoidable comedy of the knife-and-fork moment that initiated someone like me into the life of Europe.

‘Do you understand what it means to eat with a knife and fork?’ Uncle Amir elaborated after he had his chuckle. ‘It’s not about becoming a European stooge and giving up your culture. Some of the old folks used to think that using a spoon was a first step towards becoming a Christian. No, it’s not about losing anything. It is to begin thinking about food as a pleasure, as a refinement.’ Uncle Amir nodded vehemently after he said this, and waited until I nodded back in agreement.

I understood quite quickly – within days – that Uncle Amir’s laughter and teasing were now accompanied by a tone that required obedience and a ready smile, and that he could effortlessly turn from raucous jokes to frowns when anything checked his wishes. In those moments, even Auntie Asha’s air of unguarded sophistication became watchful and her cheerfulness subsided. What’s up, mister? she would say, and if Uncle Amir wished to be cajoled out of his petulance he would offer a small smile and make a tiny joke to indicate the beginning of a return to benign times, but if he was not ready yet, he would make an exasperated gesture, waving her away, and continue with his glum looks until whatever had provoked him was put right and his equanimity was stroked into place. It was a manner calculated to intimidate and I duly lowered my head whenever I made eye contact.

Having completed my studying arrangements to his satisfaction, Uncle Amir took me to Debenhams to select my wardrobe for me, reluctantly accompanied by Auntie Asha, who favoured Marks & Spencer. The clothes I had brought with me were quite unsuitable for the cold, Uncle Amir told me. Thin cotton shirts and Terylene trousers, what was I thinking of? You’ll freeze your balls off! Uncle Amir preferred that I understood little of what I saw in London, that I needed everything explained and decisions made for me. My opinion was not required on any issue. They bought me a thick light blue sweater, which came up to my chin and wrapped round my neck like a brace, and a navy blue raincoat made of thick raspy canvas-like material. It was two sizes too big to accommodate the woollies I would have on underneath. They bought two long-sleeved blue shirts, which looked shiny and cheap and felt slippery. They finished off with a pair of thick light-blue gloves, blue socks and scarf, and dark underpants. Auntie Asha liked blue. As they walked around the store, Uncle Amir and Auntie Asha discussed the clothes, held them against me, debated the colours and then chose blue, and explained all their decisions to me carefully if briefly.

For the first few months, every day when I left for college Auntie Asha examined me to see that I had my full kit on, whatever the weather. I wasn’t used to the cold, Auntie Asha told me during the inspection, and if I did not take care I would end up with a bad chill, and then who was going to look after me? This was London and they were a working family. For the first few months I had no choice but to dress as if I was on an expedition. The sweater was too hot, the coat was too big and made me feel as if I was wearing something discarded by one of the giant Englishmen I passed on the pavements. I took off the gloves and scarf as soon as I left the house and stuffed them in my bag. I was a relation they were paying to educate and clothe, so it was only reasonable that they should be able to choose the clothes they were willing to buy for me. I was surprised, though, by the bluntness with which they did this. I realised that I had anticipated something like it but had not understood the deference and compliance that would be expected of me. I was grateful for their welcome and did not find their sense of entitlement to dictate to me unbearable to begin with but I wished they had allowed me to choose less embarrassing clothes. I knew that I would not be able to replace or wear out that raincoat for years, not so long as I was Auntie Asha’s and Uncle Amir’s poor relation. It felt like a badge of my neediness. Maybe any clothes would have embarrassed me at that time because the embarrassment lay deeper than what I wore, it was more to do with the overbearing shrillness of the strange air around me.

In the third week in September, three weeks after my arrival in London and fully kitted out, I started college. I made my way there in fear and trembling, London terrified me so much. The streets confused me. I could not make them out from each other. The buses and taxis and cars roared past and churned up my gut. The rush of people and vehicles muddled my sense of direction and panicked me. It humbled me that I recoiled with so much anxiety. I felt as if the city despised me, as if I were a tiresome and timorous child who had wandered unwelcome out of the dust and rubble of his puny island shanty into this place where boldness and greed and swagger were required for survival.