Devil in disguise, p.12
Looking for Lucie, page 12
It’s then that a usually suppressed memory from a difficult time before I even met Maneer comes into my mind. Over the years I’d blocked out feelings of loss and grief; taken on board the British “stiff upper lip”. My brother, Nabeel, and I have been the guardians of a family secret which at times has taken its toll. A few years back, with the advancement of the internet, Google, Facebook and Friends Reunited, my curiosity had grown and I’d made some searches. But all my hopes came to nothing. Then, after reading a whole series of detective novels, I toyed with the idea of hiring a private investigator. But I had so little to go on. There were rumours of course, but rumours aren’t facts. The investigator would probably want to speak to Maneer, and I couldn’t bear the thought of dragging him into it all. He’d never think of my family in the same way again. I had put the memory back in to the far reaches of my mind again until this very moment.
“Are you okay, Maryam?” asks Charlie.
“I’m fine,” I reply coming out of my trance-like state.
“Ah,” says Mathilde, “There is this: a mixed profile linked to yours...which is a bit unexpected knowing your family.”
What does she mean by knowing my family? Mathilde had been one of the few colleagues who’d been over to the house for barbeques and other meals. The woman lives alone in a riverside apartment, and I was brought up to see mealtimes as a communal event. And it was always an opportunity for Nav and Mathilde to chat, which I liked to encourage.
“I’ll print it off,” says Mathilde.
Nav
Norwich City is playing at home today. It’s 3pm and the football match has just kicked off. This means a quiet afternoon in the shop. With almost no customers and all the repairs done, my thoughts keep returning to Lucie. I want to speak to her, to continue our conversation about family trees and how best to represent that sort of data when she gets the match results.
I download a family tree DNA app. I test drive it with my own family. I fill in my parent’s full dates of birth. Places of birth: Birmingham and Manchester respectively. I move the Nav icon around unsure whether I should be at the top or bottom of this chart. I add aunts, uncles, cousins. Soon enough there’s a whole load of details I can’t fill in. I don’t know my grandparents’ dates of birth. There’s no way they’d tell me, either!
I fiddle with the app moving my family around like chess pieces in an online game. Except this game has limited options. It won’t let me have the same cousin descended from both my great-grandparents. I have cousins in the States who I am distantly related to through both my mum and my dad’s family. No one has thought to programme an app for the extended and extensive Asian family! We don’t follow the UK average of 1.7 children in our family, and therefore have many more cousins than the average British citizen. Would a Venn diagram work better? I search for somewhere to send the company my suggestion.
Maybe I should take a DNA test? A while back, over dinner, Mum was going on about the DNAcademia project at the university. “Is our intelligence inherently linked to our genes?” she asked.
“Not the nature versus nurture debate again,” said Dad.
“What’s that?” asked Nadiya.
“In psychological terms it is the extent to which particular aspects of intelligence and behaviour are a product of inheritance or learned characteristics,” said Mum.
“What?” asked Nadiya, clearly confused.
“For example; is Nav good at maths because it’s in his genes or because we sent him to study sessions and gave him revision books for his birthday?” asks Dad.
Nadiya looked at me expectantly. I shrugged.
Dad added that offering the “carrot” of ethnicity and relative matches in exchange for freely taking an IQ test and giving away raw data wasn’t wholly ethical.
Mum said that was just another way to check on the findings, and added, “Nav would make a good candidate.”
“Stop talking about our son as if he’s not in the room,” said Dad, completely unaware that he’d just done the same!
“Mum, why not me? Why can’t I do the tests?” moaned Nadiya. “Is it because I’m a girl?”
“No, Nadiya. This is nothing to do with gender. The results of genetic testing can be a lot to take in. Knowledge about our genes can be life changing,” said Dad, getting up from the table and leaving his dinner half eaten.
“What about me?” chipped in Muni, looking down at his trousers. “How can all these things be in my jeans?”
Nadiya fell about laughing.
I think about Lucie and how genetic testing is changing her life. Dad wouldn’t have to know if I took a test. There may be some surprises, things I could tell Lucie about. If I go back a few generations, I might have some English or Scottish blood in me. After all, the British were in India for nearly a hundred years until independence in 1947. I’ve never thought much about my past, our family history.
History lessons at school were always about other people’s histories. The Tudor kings and queens, Victorians and the industrial revolution, the suffragettes, dictators and World Wars—all events which none of my ancestors had anything to do with—became my story. I never felt excluded. The lessons didn’t feel strange—this was history on the default setting.
When I got home, I told Dad. He said, “Ah, but we fought on the Turks’ side in World War One, and then there were many, many soldiers from the Indian subcontinent who fought in World War Two.” I didn’t know whether to quite believe him and walked off. At college it wasn’t until Black History month that anyone mentioned the British Empire from my ancestors’ point of view. And it felt very odd. History is usually told from the victor’s point of view.
Back to the family tree app. I need my grandparents’ dates of birth. I’ll slip next door and ask Uncle Nabeel.
Nabeel
I am in the middle of negotiations with the double-glazing company when Nav wafts in waving around his phone, going on about who goes where on the family tree. I hold my hand up and hope he gets the message to shut up. “You are behind schedule and if you don’t get more workers back here on Monday, you’ll owe me a delay payment!” I bark down the phone.
Nav jumps nervously on hearing my businessman voice. “The ball is in your court,” I say ending the call.
“So what can I do for my favourite nephew?” I ask.
“I need everyone in the family’s date of birth. I’m making a family tree,” he says with that naïve smile of his. I do worry about the boy. He is so unworldly wise. I was working shifts at McDonald’s and taking on the family business at his age. He reminds me of... Don’t think it! And absolutely don’t say it! I tell myself. Don’t give anything away beyond the place and year of your parent’s birth! I’m not into all this digging up the past. Not now, after all these years.
Today the boy’s asking for dates of birth. What next? Searching for birth, death and marriage certificates? Census results? That boy is too bright for his own good. And more importantly where will it lead a clever boy like him? Nav believes in knowledge for knowledge’s sake. All that time he spends studying, rather like my dear sister Maryam.
“No problem,” I say as lightly as possible, concealing my unease. Everything is connected. I know this only too well from my business dealings. If push comes to shove, I will find a way to put a stop to all this digging up the past. Someone in the family has to do the right thing. That’s what I did before. And I’m prepared to act this time too.
Sunday 21st August
Lucie
I pass Mum on the landing. She’s carrying a tray in the direction of Maisie’s bedroom. The build-up to my sister’s GCSE results begins. There’s already an atmosphere in the house. I don’t mean being nasty to each other or anything like that. More like an unspoken expectation of being unbelievably nice to Maisie.
I eye up the mouth-watering plate of poached eggs on toast and a tall glass of orange juice with juicy bits. “Is that for me?” I ask, knowing full well it’s for Maisie.
“Shush, I’m not sure if she’s awake yet,” says Mum.
“Well, if she’s not going to wake up when you take that in, I’ll eat it then!” I say. “It won’t be nice cold.” I never get breakfast in bed.
Mum smiles weakly. “It’s so gloomy outside. The sort of day to sleep in,” she says looking at the rain still hammering on the window.
I’ve had enough of it already: walking around on eggshells to avert Maisie going into a meltdown. If only they knew how I feel! Imagine waiting to find out precisely where in the world your real biological father is from. To find out if you have brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles that you never knew about! I’m not the result of some immaculate conception. I am not Jesus Christ. Nor do I want to be! I want to be human. Normal. Like everyone else. That has to be a much bigger event than GCSE results anxiety syndrome. They don’t come out until Thursday anyway. Usually, I feel guilty when I get narked about Mum’s special treatment of Maisie—she’s always struggled at school (she and Dad are dyslexic). But today I can’t help thinking: Just another thing that shows she’s related to him and I’m not.
To be honest I don’t really feel anxious about the results which will pinpoint where in South Asia my father is from. The years of not knowing anything at all about my biological father were what sometimes drove me crazy.
The rain’s never going to stop, and I don’t know what to do today. I’d give anything to get out of the house, away from Mum, Dad and Maisie. But it’s Sunday, which means no buses until first thing tomorrow. I could walk. That would be the only way of getting out of the village before Monday. If the rain wasn’t lashing down, I’d consider walking the six miles into town. I feel like a prisoner in my own home. How I wish I’d taken up Mum and Dad’s offer of driving lessons.
I go back and hide out in my bedroom. Sunday. “Nothing day” would be a better description of today. Dad’s gone to fix someone’s burst pipe. Mum is working on her laptop. I could binge watch a series on Netflix—but I don’t really want to do that. I feel restless. Trapped. A horrible not knowing what to do with myself feeling. I need to talk to someone. I grab my phone from the bedside table and send Nav a message.
Lucie: Hey
Nav: Hey
Lucie: Any news? Results?
Nav: Sorry. Not yet. Not a good day.
Lucie: What’s up?
Nav: Hiding in my room. Nephews and nieces have cabin fever. They’ve got it bad.
Lucie: Agh...The rain?
Nav: Yes! Rainy Sundays!
Lucie: Is it statistically more likely to rain on a Sunday?
Nav: No! Of course not!
Lucie: Just joking.
Nav: A heatwave is on its way.
Lucie: Really?
A link arrives from Nav. A meteorological forecast with an amber weather warning. It says the weather will hit 32 degrees Celsius by Thursday.
Lucie: We have to wait it out. We’re transitioning. Liminal like the weather.
I like using the word liminal. I learnt it in English Literature. Neither one state nor another. From the Latin word limen, meaning threshold. Standing at the threshold. It pretty much sums me and the weather up, as does the term pathetic fallacy.
I send Nav a link to pathetic fallacy in literature.
Nav: Got to go. Kids are banging on my door—again!
Are they really banging on his door, or have I been too deep and meaningful? But no, I think as he’s super smart he will be interested.
I message Jenny. I have no idea when my stream of messages, which seem like a one-sided conversation, will arrive in her feed. She’s only on holiday in France for a few weeks but it seems like forever. And I have to tell someone. I tell her about my South Asian DNA. I tell her about Nav helping me in my search. Last summer when she was in Turkey, she said she saw so many people who looked just like me. And, as if she needed any further proof, I ate all the pistachio Turkish Delight she brought back as a present in one go. “Luce, you must be part Turkish,” said Jenny.
Nav
More banging on my bedroom door. I ignore it for a bit. The kids keep it up as if this is the best game ever. I go to the door again. I’m about to yell at them, or chase them down the hall, but come face to face with Mum.
“The rain has just about stopped. Can you take your cousins to the park?”
“Why does everyone assume I should be the one to take them to the park? As if I don’t have anything better to do. Or need any privacy. Nadiya should deal with them. Not because she’s a girl, or the next eldest, but because she’s the bossiest.” I don’t actually say any of this. Nor do I say, “I want to sit in my room and reply to Lucie.” I compose a message right now saying: Yes, I get what you mean by liminal. In science liminal is used to describe some transitional phases.
I have so much more to write but instead, I say “Sure, Mum.”
“Thanks. Nadiya’s had enough of them and taken to her bed! I almost forget sometimes that she’s a teenager!”
So instead of discussing liminality from the sanctuary of my bedroom I follow Mum downstairs into the mayhem of the utility room and supervise the putting on of wellies. There’s no way I’m wearing wellies to go beyond the garden. They’re for little kids and old people. I tie up my trainers.
Dad is cooking Sunday lunch and chatting to Aunty Mona. Wafts of roast lamb seasoned with cumin make their way from the kitchen into the utility room. I’m starving. I forgot all about breakfast. I steal into the kitchen and grab a banana from the fruit bowl.
“Nav, you’re a good boy, taking your cousins out,” says Aunty Mona.
“Anything for you, Aunty Mona,” I say with a cheesy smile. I’m also about to remind her I’m no longer a boy but a young man now, but before I can say anything my little cousin, Anmar, grabs our attention. He is running around in circles like a frustrated puppy.
“What’s up, mate?” I ask.
“My anorak is gone!” he screams.
“Where did you leave it?” replies Aunty Mona.
There’s a great commotion and I wait whilst the adults run around the house in search of Anmar’s anorak.
“Under the sofa,” says Uncle Nabeel handing it over.
I finally take the kids outside. They throw themselves down the path like caged animals being set free. I set a timer on my phone and tell them they have half an hour at the park. There’s nowhere dry to sit so I loiter around unsure what to do. Surprisingly Muni doesn’t mind racing around the wet play equipment with his little cousins. Eventually I call time and shepherd them back to the house. Once they’re in the front garden I head round to the back. I need some child-free time!
I contemplate hiding out in the summer house, when through the French windows I spy Mum and Uncle Nabeel huddled together at one end of the dining room table. From their strained expressions they are probably discussing, or more likely disagreeing about, the big student housing contract. I don’t understand her problem with it, with him moving some of the business from Birmingham into Norfolk.
Dad and Aunty Mona walk in on them. Mum and Uncle Nabeel stop talking and smile inanely at each other. Uncle Nabeel never likes to discuss business when Dad’s around. That’s what they always say. Or is Lucie right in thinking there is something shifty and secretive about Uncle Nabeel? I’ve never noticed that before.
I make my way across the patio and go in through the French window.
“Nav! Take your shoes off!” yells Mum. “Look at the mud on my floorboards!”
Dad and Uncle Nabeel look on, grinning at me in an all-men-together sympathetic way.
Mum glares at me. “Sorry,” I mumble. Obediently I sit down on the floor and unlace my trainers.
The four of them chat for a bit.
“Leila’s not joining us for lunch?” says Aunty Mona. I like Uncle Nabeel’s wife, but she hardly ever comes to visit.
Uncle Nabeel shakes his head. “She’s a home bird.”
“I would be too, if I lived in a house as grand as yours,” says Aunty Mona. That’s not what Aunty Mona says behind his back. She calls Aunty Leila a caged bird.
“It’s a long trip from Birmingham for lunch. And she wouldn’t want to camp out on-site like me!”
“Leila is always welcome to stay here,” says Mum. “As are you, Nabeel.”
“I like to stay in my properties. See it from the users’ point of view. Best way to iron out any building niggles.”
I panic and wonder if Uncle Nabeel is going to say something about me and Lucie visiting him. Sometimes my parents are too interested in our friends. At seventeen I deserve some privacy. I don’t want to attract any attention, so decide it’s best just to hide out behind the sofa until they’ve all gone.
“I’ll go and check on lunch,” says Dad looking uncomfortable and heading out.
“Let me help,” says Aunty Mona trailing after her big brother. It reminds me of how Nadiya used to follow me around—until she started high school, then she wanted nothing to do with me.
“Why are you doing this?” hisses Uncle Nabeel. “Opening things up after all this time. I have a public profile.”
What things? They’ve forgotten I’m here!
“Same old story: it’s always business before family with you,” whispers Mum.
“Same old story: it’s always you taking the moral high ground; me having to bail everyone out,” says Uncle Nabeel storming off.
What was that about? There are footsteps across the floor and the slam of the door. Mum and Uncle Nabeel have gone. Phew! I’m finally alone. I’m intrigued, but also quite used to their bickering. I’m not going to get another moment to myself until Aunty Mona and her kids leave on Wednesday evening, when she takes Nadiya and Mani back with her again for a few days. I take my phone out of my jeans pocket.
Nav: Are you free on Thursday?
Lucie: Sure.
