She Wore Red Trainers (14 page)

‘It was the right way for
us
,' Auntie Azra said primly.

‘Well, I know my nieces won't be making the same mistake, will you, girls?' Auntie Caroline arched her eyebrows at Rania. ‘These girls are too young to be thinking about marriage. They haven't even got their exam results yet! They'll have plenty of time to think about marriage when they're older.'

Auntie Azra shrugged her shoulders. ‘It's different for us, Caroline. Muslims are not allowed to date, you know that. The only sanctioned relationship between a boy and a girl is within marriage.'

‘So, are you saying that love isn't “halal”, then?'

Auntie Azra smiled. ‘Of course love is halal, Caroline, don't be silly. But, in our religion, halal love is between a husband and wife, no exceptions. And if a young person feels that they are physically and emotionally ready to be in a relationship, Islam encourages them to do it the right way,
with honour. Why do we see nothing wrong with 13-year-olds having sex – which they do – but have such a problem with the idea of an 18 or 19-year-old getting married? I know which one I would choose for my girls!'

Auntie Caroline huffed. ‘Well, I still think they're too young. They should be thinking about their education, building their careers, not getting tied down.'

‘My point exactly,' I added.

‘OK, let's change the subject, shall we, before Amirah goes on another anti-marriage rant.' Samia gave me the side eye. ‘I swear, you've become a total fascist, d'you know that? Anyway,' she turned to Auntie Caroline, ‘I don't see why I can't do both. Getting married doesn't mean the end of your life. It's just the start of a new journey, one I'd like to take with my husband at my side. I still intend to study and I'll still be able to work if I want to.'

Then Yasmin said, ‘In the Asian community, getting married early isn't always an option, really. If you don't have a degree and if the man isn't financially secure, nobody's interested. You'll struggle to find a good match, that's what all my aunties say.'

‘I think 20 plus is a good age, personally,' was Rania's response. ‘Maybe while you're at uni, or just after you graduate. But I'd prefer to marry someone older, someone more settled. He needs to have everything in place, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not into the starving young couple thing!'

We all laughed and Auntie Azra turned to me. ‘What about you, Amirah? What do you think is a good age to get married?'

I wrinkled up my nose. ‘Ummm, how about never?' Everyone groaned and rolled their eyes at me.

But Rania wouldn't let it go. ‘But
what if
, Amirah,
what if
you met The One: the perfect guy for you? The one who ticked all the boxes, who really got you, who was everything you dreamed of? Good
deen
, good character,
and
a total Mottie? What then, eh?'

I drew myself up and arched my eyebrows. ‘Well, if I met The One, I wouldn't hesitate for a moment. I would marry him straight away and go backpacking across the world, praying on the beach and sleeping under the stars. We'd be broke, but we'd have each other and that would be enough. We'd take each day as it came, building our future together and I would love him fearlessly and with all my heart.
That
is what I would do!'

The whole room erupted into screams and whoops and squeals of delight.

‘OMG!' crowed Samia. ‘The ice maiden has melted! She has succumbed!'

Yasmin literally had tears in her eyes as she sighed, ‘That is just sooooo romantic, Amirah! Who would have thought?'

‘Aha!' I said then, holding up my hand. ‘There is only one problem with this scenario: that guy you asked about, Mr Perfect? The One? Well, I hate to break it to you, ladies, but he
doesn't exist
!'

Everyone booed and started pelting me with whatever they could find: bits of tissue, rolled up socks, elastic bands. I ducked them all, grinning. I just couldn't resist winding them up. And indulging in my own secret fantasy at the same time. Only Allah knew how true everything I had just said was. Only He knew.

But then Rani blew my cover. ‘Ummm, maybe you'd like to tell us about a certain brother from Saudi Arabia who is
interested in our local ice maiden?'

More screams and dropped jaws. I shot her a dirty look and folded my arms, my lips pressed tightly together.

Rania decided to do the honours, ‘Oh, only that Zayd's got this friend that he knows from uni in Saudi and he's interested in getting married and wants to meet Miss Madam here…'

‘And I'm like “Whatever, dude, in your dreams!”'

‘Amirah, I can't believe you kept that quiet!' Samia said, grabbing me by the arm. ‘Remember the pact we made last year? We swore to tell each other any and all details about all things romance and marriage related. You are in serious breach of your contract, girl, so you'd better start talking!'

I shuddered. ‘Ugh, do I have to?'

Rania came and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘We're sisters, Ams, and sisters share things. Anyway, you need us to help you make the right decisions; you know you can't be trusted to take care of things like this since you're basically an anti-marriage extremist.'

‘In total contradiction to the
Sunnah
of the Prophet, I might add,' remarked Samia drily. I scowled and stuck my tongue out at her.

‘Enough,' I growled. ‘Zayd beat you to it with the religious lecture, believe me.'

Then Yasmin got all serious. ‘OK, joking aside, Ams. What's the deal with this Saudi brother?'

I sighed and said, in my most unexcited voice, ‘Well, for a start, he's not Saudi. He's actually born in the UK. He just went to Saudi to study at the university there. I think he has some family there or something. He's a friend of my brother's. Basically, Zayd told him about me and, because he likes Zayd
and trusts him, he wants to have a meeting when he comes to London…'

‘Where does he live, Madinah?' was Samia's question.

‘Yeah, I think so,' I replied, realising only then that I hardly knew anything about Hassan, apart from the fact that he was living in Saudi, had graduated from an Islamic university and was Zayd's friend. Nothing about his personality, his interests, plans for the future, what he was looking for in a wife…

That's because you're not interested, remember?

‘Subhanallah, a student of knowledge? Living in Madinah? Amirah, you'd be crazy not to give this brother a chance.' Her face went all dreamy. ‘To be able to make
umrah
, hajj… to pray in the Prophet's mosque every day,' she sighed. ‘Bliss, man. Bliss…'

‘It does sound kinda nice when you put it that way.' I had to admit, it did sound tempting. But I had other plans, remember? Plans that definitely did not involve getting married and moving away to a foreign country.

‘Then I think you know what you need to do, Ams.' Rania took charge. ‘You will agree to meet him when he comes to London. It's only fair to give him a chance, isn't it? Who knows, he could totally sweep you off your feet!'

They all started laughing again and I joined in. What was the point of getting all huffy with them? They didn't understand, not really. For them, it was a no-brainer: give it a go; if it doesn't work out, you just keep on going. But I had already lived through that mindset – Mum's mindset – and I knew how difficult it could be to pick yourself up and start moving forward with your life.

No, better not to tempt fate. Better to stay safe. Better to concentrate on filling those goodie bags.

***

The next day, at the library, Collette had good news.

‘Amirah, your painting was shortlisted! I'm so pleased for you!' she gushed. ‘The judges picked your painting out of hundreds of others – a real honour. You should be proud of yourself!'

Mashallah
, I said inwardly.
Cultivate humility always
. But I beamed all the same. I was really pleased with that painting and, to have it displayed with the other finalists was fantastic – a first for me. In other art competitions while I was at school, I had never been quite good enough, had never been in the running for any prizes.

‘I've started painting with my brother, Abdullah,' I said, all of a sudden overcome with shyness. ‘He's deaf – but he's been responding really well.'

‘I work with deaf children all the time,' Collette enthused. ‘It does wonders for their self-confidence and ability to communicate.' Then she looked at me, her head on one side. ‘Why don't you come down one day and see how I work? Maybe you'll get some ideas for your work with your brother.'

I couldn't think of anything I'd love more.

26

The summer flew by, each day melting into the other, establishing a routine that seemed to have always been there. It was as if we had always lived on Seville Close, as if I had always been working with tough youth, praying at the
masjid
, trying to memorise the Qur'an, dreaming about a girl I dared not speak to. It was as if Jamal had always been my shadow, as if Umar had always been AWOL, hiding behind his walls.

One day, I walked into Jamal's room to find him crying softly to himself. As soon as he saw me, he sniffed and tried to hide his face, wiping the tears from his cheeks with his too-long sleeves.

‘Hey… Jamal? What's up?' I tried to get him to look at me, but he kept his face turned away. ‘Has something happened, Jay? Talk to me.'

Eventually, he spoke. ‘I miss Mum, Ali. I miss her so much…' And then he started crying for real and it occurred to me then that he had hardly cried when she died. He'd just stopped talking for a while and clung to me like I was his only lifeline. I searched desperately for something to say to ease the pain. I knew just what he was feeling. I had been there – I was still there: missing her, mourning for her, hurting. I knew that there were no words, really, that could ease the pain. So I just
held him and let him cry it all out.

When he was done and all that he had left were sniffles, I made him look at me. ‘Jamal,' I said, ‘I'm sorry I haven't been there for you. We haven't gone out together, just the two of us, in ages – and I miss that. Tell you what, let's do something together, today. What would you like to do? Just name it.'

He chewed his bottom lip and thought for a moment. Then he looked up at me and said, ‘Mum used to take me to the library. We'd go to the kids' section and spend hours there, reading to each other. Mum always chose the picture books – she said she missed out on them when she was a kid and wanted to catch up on all the latest ones.' His voice became wistful. ‘Then, afterwards, we would choose our books – 15 books each! – and then go for a hot chocolate. That was our special routine, our special time, just Mum and me.'

‘You want to go to the library, Jay?' I asked softly. ‘No problem. Nana's meant to be coming to see us tomorrow so we can go today. Just make your bed and we'll hop on the bus to Croydon. I heard that the library there is great. I think you'll like it.' I smiled at him and ruffled his hair. The look of relief and hope on his face almost broke my heart.
O Allah,
I made
du'a. Help me to take care of my responsibilities towards Jamal in the best way. And protect and guide him always.

And that was how we ended up on the Number 250 bus to Croydon. That was how I got to see Croydon Town Centre for the first time. That was how I found myself face to face with a piece of me on the wall of a cafe.

It was crazy.

One moment, we were enjoying the buzz and unique look of the Croydon Library building – the high ceilings, the dedicated children's library area, the three floors of books,
books, books – and the next, I was staring at a painting that was so realistic, so familiar that, for a moment, I wondered whether my eyes were playing tricks on me.

Hanging on the walls of the library cafe were several pieces of art, all linked by a sporting theme of some sort. Sketches, abstract paintings, portraits. But there was one piece, a larger than life painting of a pair of hands holding a ball of fire, about to shoot it into a basketball hoop, that made me stop short.

I recognise those hands.

At first, I thought I must be dreaming, seeing things. I rubbed my eyes and stepped closer.

The shape of the fingers, the nails, the way the veins stood out on the inside of the wrist, were all as familiar to me as my own face. I turned my left hand over and looked down. There was the birthmark, below my knuckle, just as it was in the painting.

No, there was no doubt about it: those were my hands. Totally confused – and pretty weirded out – I looked down at the name that had been scratched into the paint in the corner of the canvas.

Amirah Wyatt.

Zayd Wyatt's sister. My neighbour.

My composure fell away like the flimsiest house of cards. Wild thoughts raced through my mind.

To have drawn my hands in such minute detail, leaving nothing out, meant that either she had a photographic memory or… or she had made a point of noticing every little detail about my hands.

I smiled then, giddy with hope, with the threat of possibility.

She
did
remember me. She
was
thinking of me. Maybe…

Maybe…

***

The following Monday, at summer school, I made a point of catching Zayd alone. I wanted to test the waters, to see whether she had mentioned me to him at all.

‘Umm, Zayd,' I began, trying to sound all casual. ‘Your sister's into art, right?'

Immediately, I saw his defences go up and he looked at me, barely disguising his suspicion. His reply was guarded. ‘Yeah… kind of. She's been taking classes down at the Croydon Library. Just won a prize of some kind. Why d'you ask?'

‘Oh, no reason… was just wondering. I… I saw one of her paintings hanging up at Croydon library and thought I'd ask…' I trailed off, withering under his stern gaze.