day of the week and rarely left the house, except on Sunday when he went to Church. Tom’s sister, Maggie, was the Irish landlady and she lived above us with her two cats, Arthur and One Eye. She was the one that came over to us as Tom parked the van.
Maggie was a fiery lady with bright red curly hair and a big bust that she emphasised with a light sweater. She wore a black pencil skirt which was obviously too tight. Miss Davies would say that she was having her last fling with youth, that’s what I heard her say to another teacher about Catherine Hunter’s mother who dressed in those type of short skirts. Maggie also had long nails and her fingertips were stained the colour of dried henna, like her teeth. She showed us into our new home. Amma thanked her. Maggie looked down at our three suitcases and smiled at us, a smile that pretended to look reassuring. She ruffled Satchin’s hair, which was the wrong thing to do because he only let Amma do that. He stepped back from her and clung to Amma who held onto him. Maggie smiled at me and I smiled back.
‘What’s your name, darling?’
‘Maya, Maya Kathi, and I’m six and my brother’s called Satchin and he’s eight.’
‘Well, Maya Kathi, if you ever need anything, I live upstairs,’ she said as she left.
The room had horrific orange psychedelic wallpaper, a decorative attempt to distract us from what it really was; damp, cold and sparse. It had dripping taps, a hob ring for a cooker, and a greasy, thick green curtain to divide the kitchen from the sleeping/sitting area. Tom showed us how to insert the ten pence pieces in the electric meter under the sink. He looked at my mother and he told her that it would not be forever, it was just a start. When he said that, I could tell Amma wanted to cry, but she didn’t. He left and we unpacked our things.
Maggie and Tom came back a few hours later with an old iron bed for the three of us to sleep in and a few other bits and pieces which Maggie said she didn’t need. ‘Tom said you’ll need a job,’ Maggie said to Amma. We translated and Amma nodded. ‘There’s a factory a bus ride away from here that is always looking for people. Can you sew?’ Maggie waited for us to relay what she had said and Amma shook her head. ‘It’s not difficult, it’ll take a day or two to get into it. I’ve a machine upstairs. I’ll teach you.’
That is how we spent the next two days, in Maggie’s warm room with an electric bar heater and a Singer sewing machine buzzing away. One Eye and Arthur were jumping about and playing with us, whilst the television was on in the background. Maggie said Amma was a natural and would have no problems in finding work. We, in the meantime, she said, would have to be good for her and go to school. On Monday, she would take us to enrol at the local primary school and she would then accompany my mother to the factory. I thought that Maggie was another sign and that my father had sent her to show us that he hadn’t forgotten us. I could tell, though, that Amma was very cautious of her. I don’t know what exactly it was about Maggie but Amma wasn’t herself when she was around her. Maybe she didn’t understand her.
That Sunday evening, before we went to bed, I wrote a letter to my Ammamma telling her all that had happened to us. I hadn’t written religiously like I had promised because we had been so busy, but that Friday, I began my first letter, not something that I told Amma to write for me. I really missed her and I tried to remember the things she taught me but I couldn’t, so I told her things that we did and how it was now. I asked Satchin if he wanted to write anything to her on my letter. He took it from me and began laughing. He read from the beginning: ‘Dear Ammamma, Who are you?’
‘You mean how, Maya, not who.’
That was the first time he had laughed since that day. It was worth saying ‘who’ if it made him laugh. How/who, it didn’t really matter, because Ammamma didn’t read English anyway. It was just so that she would get something from me to let her know that I hadn’t forgotten her and I wanted to send it because I needed her now. Amma lit a candle and burnt an incense stick and placed it near her bronze figurine of a little Goddess with many arms and thanked Her for whatever she had sent. Momentarily, the scent masked the dampness and put us to sleep. It took me back to the veranda, waiting for my Achan, who would scoop me up and tickle me, or back to the big house when he came in late at night, kissing me and saying, ‘Who is my best little Mol?’ As morning approached, I had fragments of dreams of my Ammamma, the smell of the sea vividly invading my senses as we were running along the beach, or as I sat on the side, watching her swimming with all her clothes on. Occasionally, it didn’t make any sense, like when she appeared in a red telephone box. I promised whoever was listening out there that I would never complain if I could have those days back with the two people that I loved most. I awoke to the smell of that urine-stained mattress.
Amma got up early that morning and insisted on washing and oiling our hair. ‘You want to look good for your new school don’t you, makkale?’
I thought it was best not to make a fuss because she seemed sad at the prospect that it was the last time she would be able to do that for us. ‘If I get work at the factory, I will have to be up very early and go before you wake up, so I won’t have time to do this for you every day, not for a little while anyway.’
She helped us get dressed and Maggie came down to get us. Maggie said she would be back for Amma in half an hour to take her to the factory. We kissed her goodbye and left her to get ready. ‘Be good,’ she shouted through the window.
Maggie held our hands but Satchin released hers as we began walking to school. We passed derelict buildings, shops that were boarded up and covered with graffiti. Some said simply ‘Pakis out’. These Pakis were everywhere, according to the graffiti. ‘Who are they?’ I asked Maggie.
‘You’ve not to take any notice of that sort of thing. Do you hear me children? Just silly people giving other people nasty names.’
There were empty beer cans sprawled along the way, which had been dented by heavy fists or feet, and a group of punks crossed the road. Their hair colour reminded me for an instant of the exotic birds we had back in India. I looked at my brother to see if he had thought so too but he was somewhere else, looking down at his feet. This was the ten-minute walk to school that we would grow so familiar with, and then we went into a very old, grey building.
Maggie accompanied us along the corridor to see Mr Mauldy, the headmaster. He asked us lots of questions and gave us a stack of forms which needed Amma’s signature. We said we could sign right there as Satchin was the one who normally signed for her when Achan wasn’t around. Maggie smiled at the headmaster, saying that we were always joking around like that, and she took the forms and put them in her handbag, adding she would make sure that my mother got them. He smiled at us uncomfortably and then he took us down the corridor to show us to our respective classrooms.
My new teacher was a lady called Miss Brown; she didn’t have the warmth of Miss Davies and when she smiled she revealed a set of piano teeth, with a protruding e flat. ‘This is Maya, everyone say hello,’ she said, introducing me to my new class. ‘This is Maya,’ she repeated. Everybody talked over her. She shouted at the top of her voice and they stopped for a few seconds and looked at her apathetically. Nobody volunteered for me to sit next to them and I could feel the hostile eyes of a boy in the front row. Miss Brown pointed to the back of the class to a seat next to a small girl. I went over to her and as I took my seat I smiled nervously at her. She smiled back, saying that her name was Fatima and she gave me a yellow fruit gum. This act of generosity meant so much at the time but, weeks later, I realised that she had packets and packets of them as her mother worked at the sweet factory and the yellow ones were the ones she didn’t like and so discarded without a second thought.
Miss Brown was teaching the colours of the rainbow and was asking if anyone knew what followed red. I knew all the colours because in the old school we had learnt a song. I kept putting my hand up and answering questions and the boy in the front row kept looking back at me. I smiled and then he squinted his eyes at me so I ignored him. This aggravated the situation because he mouthed something back, to which I shrugged my shoulders, indicating that I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
‘He’s Mark Fitzgerald, you can’t mess with Mark Fitzgerald like that, say you’re sorry,’ said Fatima.
‘But