reading

Emily

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Saturday 2 February 1901

“It can’t be good for you, Maria,” Pa says, “to stand out in this weather.”

“I have to go,” my mother argues. “When will we see a day like this again? I have a slight cold, no more – what other chance will there be to pay our respects?”

The Queen is dead! Victoria, who ruled this country for over sixty years, has died at her home on the Isle of Wight. Ma reads the funeral plans aloud from The Times and, oh! what a complicated thing it is to bury a queen. Her coffin must be brought by boat and train to London, then put on a carriage and drawn through the streets – past the Palace, Hyde Park, Marble Arch and so to Paddington and another train to Windsor for her final rest.

Ma wanted us all to set out early to obtain a good place, but Pa expects a tobacco shipment today and can’t desert his business. When he sees she is determined, he turns to me.

“Stay by your mother, Emily. There will be great crowds – be sure not to separate. And keep yourselves warm.”

Ma thinks it will be best to go straight to Paddington and wait there for the cortège to arrive; that way, she says, we may be ahead of the crowd. But at nine-thirty, when we leave the station, the kerbs are already lined five deep. Ma squeezes through the throng, pulling me with her and ignoring complaints from those on either side. The roads are guarded by policemen and one tells us, “Watch your pockets, ladies. There are villains about who take advantage of a time like this.”

We stamp our feet to keep them from turning numb and breathe into our gloves. Ma buys currant cake from a street seller, but is unwilling to give up our place to go in search of a coffee stall. The sky is a sombre grey and unbroken cloud presses down on us, threatening rain or snow. The cortège is expected before noon, but there is still no sign of it by twelve-thirty.

“She better ‘urry up,” says a joker, “or the train’ll go without ‘er!” A policeman gives him a disapproving look. At last we see the gun carriage with its sad burden, the new king on horseback and more crown princes than I can count or name. I see that Ma is caught up in the spectacle, despite the cold, but what I cannot credit is the sheer number of troops. Guards, cavalrymen, Scotsmen in kilts, men from the Indian army, sailors – all look polished, brushed and fed, the horses sleek and well-groomed. Yet how can so many be here, at home in London, while my brother Charlie and his comrades want for reinforcements and rations in the heat of South Africa?

The gun carriage enters the station and we watch until we can see it no more. The Queen’s coffin now goes on to Windsor with all the kings and princes, leaving her people behind. The crowd seems reluctant to disperse and we cannot get back into the station. We try for an omnibus to King’s Cross instead, but so do many others and it takes an hour before we reach the front of the queue. By the time we get back to Stepney, it is almost five o’clock and already growing dark. I feel cold and tired, but Ma is shivering violently and starting to cough.

Pa is not yet home, so I call for Daisy to stoke up the parlour fire and make us some tea. We have been looking into the faces of mourners all day and at first I don’t notice the slump of Daisy’s shoulders or the blank emptiness of her expression, but Ma follows her eye to the hall table where a long envelope with a War Office imprint lies waiting. It is addressed to Mr and Mrs Watts.

“Open it, Emmie,” Ma whispers, “my fingers are too numb.”

If only I could turn back time, fold up the page unseen, reseal the envelope, make the postman take it back; but it’s too late. I hold the letter outstretched for all three of us to read. Thousands have marked the passing of a woman who lived a long, long life and died in her bed, but not one of his family was at home to receive this terrible paper which tells us Charlie is dead.

Daisy’s grief bursts through the air in a shrill wail, which I feel as much as hear. Ma utters a low moan. As for me, I stand helpless, like someone watching a play.

“Give me a hand, Dais,” I say at last, “Ma’s chilled to the bone. We must get her to bed.”

There has been a certain coolness between Ma and Daisy ever since my brother ran away to war, leaving a letter for our maid but no word for our parents. When she learned that Daisy considered Charlie her sweetheart, Ma tried to argue her out of such a notion. His father would never allow it, she said; besides, Charlie was just a boy but would come back a man: his feelings were bound to change. Daisy had listened in sullen silence.

“It can’t be,” Ma whispers now. “They must be mistaken – he only turned seventeen last month.”

Her eyes are wide and staring. She stretches out white hands and Daisy moves to clasp them, but Ma just slips through her grasp and falls to the floor. Somehow, between us, we haul her upright, drape her arms around our shoulders and guide her upstairs. I fill the stone hot water bottles to warm the bed and drag coals up the stairs to light a fire in her room, Daisy heats some broth and tries to coax her to eat.

All the while, my mind is pushing it back: Charlie is dead! No time to enquire or mourn: Ma’s needs are too great. At one moment, her face is shining with sweat, the next, she’s shivering again. She tosses her head from side to side, muttering to herself, flinging out an arm and kicking off the bedclothes.

“Should we call your Pa at the warehouse?” Daisy asks.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

Pa has only recently installed a telephone system and Daisy still regards it with terror, flinching every time it rings. Then I realise that Pa will have already left and call the exchange to ask for Dr Reynolds instead.

Dr Reynolds arrives within the half hour and Pa some ten minutes later. The doctor is already putting his stethoscope away, when Pa enters, grey faced, the War Office letter in his hand. In our haste to help Ma, we left it lying on the hall floor. I exchange a horrified look with Daisy, fearing his anger, but he just stands silently watching as Dr Reynolds takes Ma’s pulse. The doctor finishes his examination, then takes Pa by the arm and draws him away from the bed.

“Maria has a fever and her lungs are congested, but that should clear with care. I am more concerned that this shock may end the remission in her underlying condition.”

Pa nods dumbly and holds out the letter to him. “I thought Charlie would get the restlessness out of his system – come home and settle to the business again. This enteric fever – what is it?”

“A name for typhoid and similar conditions. I am so sorry, Edward.”

“His last letter talked of fever and pains in the gut.”

“Those are symptoms. He would have grown progressively weaker. The disease is only too common in wartime.”

Neither of them looks at Daisy or me. Ma is sleeping fitfully and I reach across the bed to grasp Daisy’s hand. My poor brother!

“I don’t think you should discuss this with Maria. It would be kinder to let her believe Charlie was killed outright,” the doctor says.

“But she read the letter, surely?” Pa replies.

“She may forget the details. I have administered laudanum and you can repeat the dose – half a spoon, no more – in four hours. I’ll call tomorrow, early.”

Pa groans softly as he strokes Ma’s brow. When Dr Reynolds rests a hand on his shoulder, he gives himself a little shake and bids us show the doctor out. I ask if we should make up the bed in Charlie’s room so he need not disturb Ma, but Pa won’t leave her side. Instead, he asks for an eiderdown, saying he will sleep on the bedroom chaise.

I know he still blames Daisy for not warning us of Charlie’s plans. Pa wanted to dismiss her on the spot, but Daisy had always been Ma’s special project. Perhaps he blames me too. I found the papers by accident – our own birth certificates and, with them, the birth and death records of a first born brother we never knew we had, an infant who lived only a few short weeks.

“What does it mean?” Charlie had asked, frowning at the dates.

“Ma must have had a baby before you,” I said, “a little boy who died.”

I feared Pa would catch us snooping and was anxious to put the papers away, but Charlie read them over and over, following the bundle with his eyes when I put it back in the bureau. My brother was tall for sixteen, strong and lean from the hours he spent cycling, the beginnings of a moustache furring his lip. Pa expected him to join his tobacco import business, just as he had joined his own grandfather, but Charlie grew restless when Pa and Baines, his warehouse manager, stood on the dockside, talking of exchange rates and margins. His eyes slid off sideways to the ships and the sailors and the promise of distant shores untroubled by arithmetic or a profit and loss account. He lacked only proof of age to pass as old enough to enlist – and I had put it into his hands.

A sudden spasm of coughing jolts Ma into wakefulness and she clutches my father’s arm.

“Charlie?” she cries, as if imploring him to say this is all a bad dream.

Pa shakes his head and turns away. I used to envy my brother, who had been sent to college to continue his studies and was destined for a life in the world. All my parents’ hopes were focussed on his future; now I wonder how any of us will endure his loss.

Tuesday 5 February 1901

Pa has received another letter, almost too painful to read, written by Charlie two weeks before he died. He was employed at one of the prison camps, where food was short, troops were scarcely better fed than those they guarded and fever ran riot. There was no proper sanitation, he wrote, and they were plagued with flies. I wish I could see you all, the letter ends. If I could sit and read the newspaper to Ma I’d be sure to pick a cheerful story, nothing to do with the dirt and muddle here. Give my love to Emmie and, please Pa, be kind to my dear Dais.

I think Daisy’s feelings are more complicated than mine. Ma took her as a servant when Daisy’s own mother died, but from the age of twelve she grew up beside Charlie and me. For most of that time she treated Charlie like a favourite brother, teasing him, spoiling him, letting him get his own way. In the six months before he enlisted, their friendship changed to something more. Perhaps Charlie looked at her with new eyes and saw a pretty, plump girl whose fair curls were forever escaping from her cap, and who, unlike me, never tried to put him down. And maybe Daisy saw the boy she’d always loved growing into a man – and the chance of a better life.

I like to think he would have kept his word, had he lived, and come home to marry her. For all his faults, Charlie was a simple soul – once set on a track he did not waver. If Pa had raised obstacles, he would have become all the more determined and Ma, who has always been fond of Daisy, might have been persuaded to smooth their path. I don’t mean to detract from her real sorrow, but Daisy also mourns the chance of becoming a daughter to Ma and being raised from the position of maid.

Ma’s weakness and fever have not improved and today, when Dr Reynolds was leaving, I took the opportunity to question him.

“Doctor, when you spoke to Pa the other day, you used the term remission. What does that mean?”

He looked at me sharply, apparently surprised that I remembered his words. Perhaps something in the earnestness of my face stopped him from brushing my enquiry aside.

“Remission, Emily, means that the symptoms of a disorder lessen or go away, usually for a time, occasionally permanently. Until recently, your mother has been experiencing just such an improvement in her condition.”

“But this condition she has – what is it?”

“It is a disorder of the blood. An imbalance of the cells, the tiny units of living matter which make up our bodies. It’s difficult to explain.”

“And this is dangerous?”

“It leaves the body open to infection. It no longer fights disease as it should.”

“Where does it come from? I know dirty water causes the fever that killed poor Charlie – how do you catch Ma’s disease?”

“It is not something you catch, Emily, at least not from another person. You are in no danger. I’ve noticed similar conditions in people who worked in certain industries as children – factories where they use strong chemicals to make glue or paint.”

“But that’s not Ma’s case.”

“I know that. There is not always a reason; at least not one that we can discover.”

“Is there no cure?” I asked.

“None that is reliable. Some doctors have tried a particular compound, but it contains arsenic, a poison, and your father does not want to risk its use.”

“But then...?”

He stopped and seemed to recollect with surprise that he talked to a mere girl.

“Emily, I think a great deal of your mother, but I may only do what I can.”

On Saturday morning, I walk to Fenton’s store, in Watney Market, to buy black crepe for our hats. I hoped to see Sally, my best friend from school, whose father owns the tailor’s shop, but Mr Fenton says she is visiting her grandmother.

Ma knew I missed my friends and would sometimes invite Sally when she finished her lessons, although her tales of my old school friends, or of putting on plays in the classroom, made me even more discontented than before. We had sat together at school, sharing a desk in the front row, our hands raised like flagpoles to answer a question or volunteer to read. The headmaster said he hoped I would continue for another year at least, even train as a teacher myself, but, while Pa always said well done when I received a merit for my composition or came second in arithmetic, he would rather have heard it from Charlie. He insisted I was needed at home and took me out of school once I reached fourteen. He doesn’t see the purpose of extended education for girls. I thought perhaps I might be allowed to get a job instead, but with Ma so poorly it is out of the question.

“Miss Emily! I thought I heard your voice.”

Pa’s manager, William Baines, comes hurrying from the back of the shop where he is being fitted for a new waistcoat. He’s a strongly-made young man of twenty-five or six perhaps, with black waving hair curling into long sideburns and a high complexion. I suppose some people might call him handsome, but his eyes are pale and watery and he peers at you too closely. I once told Ma that he made me feel uncomfortable, but she said I shouldn’t condemn a man for his poor sight.

“You are shopping,” he says. “Can I help?”

“I’ve finished my errand. I’d hoped to see my friend, Miss Fenton, but she’s away.”

“I am sorry for the loss of your brother, miss. Will you let me escort you home?”

“There’s no need.”

“All the same, let me walk a little way with you. We should be friends, you and I. Your brother’s sad fate has left us both with a difficult situation to handle.”

There’s that same close, almost too familiar stare; I remember what Ma said and force myself to meet his gaze.

“I don’t understand, Mr Baines. Losing Charlie is a sorrow we must bear, not a problem for solution.”

“I speak of your parents. My job is to take your father’s business affairs off his shoulders at this time, just as you support your mother. We should help each other, miss.”

“I can’t make my mother better. It’s Charlie she wants.”

I didn’t mean to answer so sharply; he puts his hand to his brow and blinks his moist blue eyes.

“You blame me, miss. I blame myself. I couldn’t help envying my cousin Fred and talking about the war at times. I’m afraid Charlie must have caught my enthusiasm.”

I haven’t thought about it before, but, yes, perhaps that was when it started. Ma and Pa held a dinner for our friends and neighbours when Mafeking was relieved and all the country was busy mafficking as they called the celebrations. Mr Baines told us how his cousin had been at the siege, declaring he would have joined up himself had his weak sight not made him unfit for action. It was the measles, he said, that had damaged his eyes.

“You do better here, Bill,” Pa said, “supplying tobacco to our boys.”

Dr Reynolds commented it was clean water they stood in need of, not tobacco, but Charlie listened spellbound. He had always devoured stories of adventure and exploration in Africa and he never tired of hearing about Baines’ cousin Fred’s exploits.

“Miss Emily?”

Mr Baines holds out a square of perfectly laundered linen and I realise I am weeping. We bickered and fought and were, as people say, like as chalk and cheese, but Charlie was my companion for as long as I can remember.

“I am sorry to have distressed you. Believe me, I didn’t know that your brother would be so foolhardy. I’ll do all I can to support your father – we must talk again.”

He raises his hat and leaves me clutching the soggy mess I’ve made of his handkerchief. I should feel grateful, I do feel grateful that he doesn’t treat me as a child; at least he speaks to me as if I have a brain. He’s told us he was an orphan, raised by his aunt for a few years, but obliged to fend for himself from the age of thirteen. Pa says Baines pulled himself up by his bootstraps, so I suppose he commands respect, but I don’t fully trust him. The waistcoat he was trying in Fenton’s was of deep purple brocade, worn beneath a grey wool jacket, and I wonder that he can afford such finery.

Aysha

Images

December 2000

The moment Aysha gets off the bus, a blonde girl wearing a white puffa jacket over a football top and jeans jumps down from the wall and grabs her arm.

“Thought you weren’t coming!”

“Sorry, Kas. First week of Ramadan – I didn’t wake up in time to eat!”

“Here,” Karen says, pushing a bag of crisps under her nose.

“Can’t, can I?”

“Didn’t think you were religious.”

“I’m not really. Fasting’s more of a family thing. Like you with Christmas.”

“They won’t know,” Karen laughs and the bag of crisps makes a comeback.

Aysha glances at the other students milling outside college. “You reckon?” she says. Her mum would be disappointed if she cheated, and somehow she herself would be too.

“I thought we were going out next week – for the end of term?”

“We can go after college – the sun’s down by then. Eid’s just after Christmas, so I can still come round and scoff all your chocolate!”

Karen raises her eyebrows. “Let’s get a move on then – you know what Jo’s like about latecomers.”

“Yes, I happen to think Colin Firth’s pretty hot as Darcy too.”

Their English tutor, Jo Massey, is addressing her giggling literature group. “But I’d like to think that some of you at least have based your answer on Austen’s original novel, not the TV adaptation.”

The question is, when and why do Elizabeth’s feelings towards Mr Darcy begin to change?

“Well, it’s when she sees what a big... um... house he’s got, miss,” Karen snickers.

Some of the group, which is predominantly female, seem unhappy that romance should exhibit such a mercenary turn, but the Asian girls nod, seeing analogies between Darcy’s stately home and income and a chain of restaurants or a British passport.

“What do you think, Aysha?”

“Well, she couldn’t ignore it, could she – the house and money, I mean? Not when women couldn’t work to support themselves. But it’s like she can see he’s got reason to be proud – that and hearing other people’s good opinions of him.”

Jo nods, pleased, and continues trying to coax from each student a response to the words on the page.

“That was all right,” says Aysha to Karen when the session ends.

The girls clatter down the broad staircase to the canteen, where Karen selects a pack of sandwiches from the machine. The place is half empty. A few groups of lads are playing cards; others rock back vertiginously on chairs to inconvenience passersby. Karen swings her rucksack off her shoulder and manages to clout one on the head as they join a few of their tutor group at a neighbouring table.

“You off to the library?” she asks, when Aysha doesn’t sit down.

“Later. I’m supposed to be seeing Andy Carstairs at one, but it shouldn’t take long. I’ll see you there.”

A skinny black girl with wild spiralling curls looks up, slowly manoeuvres a wad of gum into her cheek and grins. “Watch yourself – heard he has a thing for Asian girls.”

“Shut it, Billie.” Karen says automatically.

The girl rolls her eyes.

“It’s work, stupid,” Aysha tells her. “I’ve got to run an idea for my history project past him.”

“You thinking about that independent study already?” Karen queries. “I’ve no idea what to do.”

“I thought about researching our house and the square. Like who used to live there, what the changes have been.”

“Can you do that? I thought it would have to be more important – like the suffragettes or something.”

“I don’t know. That’s what I want to ask.”

“I like your enthusiasm,” Andy says. “Yes, there are pitfalls, but I’ve got high hopes for you, Aysha. You’re an able student, you could carry it off.”

She is perched on a stool next to his desk in the humanities staffroom. Piles of books and folders barricade his computer, threatening to topple onto the keyboard, a coffee cup sits precariously on a ringbinder and a photo of a young boy is taped to the filing cabinet.

“What would I have to do?” Aysha asks.

“Find out names if you can, but don’t get hung up on individuals, use them to relate to major themes and trends – changing industries, women and employment, migration. You’ll have plenty of scope for primary sources – the census records, street directories, photographs. Remember, we’re visiting the local history collection in Bancroft Road next week.”

“So I can do it, then?”

“Write me your proposal first, but I don’t see why not.”

Aysha’s mother has been cooking coconut samosas and her eldest brother, Mo, has brought sweets from the shops in Brick Lane. After the family have broken their fast, Aysha picks out a small selection and takes them to the old couple downstairs. She often sees the wife go out to the corner shop, but her husband rarely leaves the basement flat.

The old woman looks surprised, but asks her in and puts the kettle on.

“It’s the young girl from upstairs, Bert. Brought us some... they’re not spicy, are they?” she asks, eyeing the samosas suspiciously.

“No, this kind is sweet. And these are called jalebi,” Aysha replies, indicating the shop bought offerings.

“Go down all right with a cup of tea.” Bert picks up a syrupy coil and dips it in his brew.

“Can’t take ‘im anywhere,” his wife complains.

“So, you all settled in?” the old man asks. “What is it – five, six months you’ve been ‘ere now?”

Aysha nods. Her family moved to the square after Mo’s baby son was born and the council flat Dad bought in the eighties was just too small. The old couple’s flat is separate from the rest of the house, but her family still has four whole bedrooms: enough for Mum and Dad, Mo with his wife and their son, her brothers Selim and Abdul, and a funny little space, tucked under the roof on the top floor for herself. It’s an oddly proportioned room which must have been partitioned at some time to provide the shower room on the other side.

She gets to her ulterior motive for the visit and asks how long Bert and his wife Maud have lived there.

“Nineteen forty-six,” Maud says, “after the war. I grew up across the square – where the flats are now – but our house got flattened in the Blitz. Mum and Dad and us kids moved in with my gran. Me and Bert thought we’d have to go further out when we got married, but then we heard about this place. It’s not big, but it’s home. Been here ever since.”

“I’m doing a local history project at college. What was the house like then? It would have been all one once, wouldn’t it?”

Perhaps they have photos, pictures of the square during the war.

Bert scratches his chin. “Well, the inside stairs to the ground floor were still there. When old man Donaldson – the landlord – died, back in the sixties, his son took them out and made space to put the bath in. There must have been a big kitchen, a scullery and a coal shed here once, but they’d already been knocked through when we came. They had maids when these houses were built, none of your machines to do the work.” Bert reaches into the box and prises the last sticky morsel from the cardboard. “They’re all right, love, these jelly whatsits of yours.”

On the last day of term, Aysha gets up early to find her sister-in-law sitting in the kitchen nibbling biscuits and sipping mint tea. At first she thinks nothing of Reshna not fasting – she probably has her period – but then remembers the same scene last weekend, with Mum fussing over her and making her sit down to chop the vegetables.

“Is Reshna pregnant?” she asks, when the young woman hurriedly leaves the room.

Mum holds up both hands, fingers extended. “Ten week,” she says. “Sick again – is good sign.”

“Another baby?”

Ibrahim has only just had his first birthday. The house that seemed so spacious six months ago is beginning to feel overcrowded.

“Insh’Allah,” Mum beams.

“Do me a favour?” she asks Karen on the bus home. “Come to the Local History Collection with me on Tuesday. I’ve told Mum it’s something we’ve all got to do.”

“Okay. But why? Won’t she let you go alone?”

“Reshna’s throwing up, so she can’t help with the cooking, and Mum doesn’t realise we’ve still got college work to do in the holidays. If I don’t go soon the building will be closed until New Year.”

“What’re you looking for?”

“Well, I already found out our house was built in the 1820s and bought by someone called John Watts – a tobacco merchant. Another Watts was living there in 1891 according to the census, but that must’ve been his son or grandson. There were children, too, a boy and a girl. The next census isn’t released until next year, but there are supposed to be street directories which show who lived where and what they did.”

“I wonder what happened to them all?”

Aysha shrugs. “Maud and Bert mentioned some old guy they rented from when they first moved in. I’ve forgotten the name, but it wasn’t Watts.”

The doorbell sounds and Aysha calls, “I’ll go!” She dusts her floury hands on her jeans and runs to open the front door to Karen. Her friend bounces in wearing a maroon tracksuit that Aysha hasn’t seen before and a sparkling pair of Nike trainers. Her long blonde hair swings from a high pony tail, revealing twisted gold hoop earrings.

“Thought I’d check out the sales in Oxford Street,” she says. “Can you come?”

“Karen!” Aysha’s mum calls. “Eid Mubarak!”

“We’re cooking,” Aysha whispers. “You won’t get away without at least tea and sweets.”

“I thought Eid was the other day.”

“It was, but we didn’t see you then, so you’re still our Eid guest.”

The girls go into the living room and sit together on the long, squashy sofa. At its other end, Dad dozes beside the television, a glass of sweet tea cooling by his side. On screen, Barney the purple dinosaur is singing to no-one in particular, as Mo has just taken Abdul and Ibrahim to the park. Selim is listening to music on his earphones, nodding his head and mumbling lyrics; Aysha sees him shoot Karen the odd, covert glance. Mum hovers over them with a plate, her hands stained with turmeric.

“I’ve been stuffing myself silly, but I can always make room for one of your samosas, Mrs Khatun,” Karen says.

Within seconds, a small wicker stool appears at her side and Mum gestures to Aysha to pour a glass of cola.

“You like the Christmas?” Mum asks.

Karen nods vigorously, her mouth full. She starts to rummage in her shoulder bag.

“What d’you get?” Aysha says. “Apart from what you’re wearing, of course.”

The only child of two working parents, Karen rarely wants for presents.

“The trackie? That’s from Auntie Lou and Nan bought me the hoops. Mum and Dad got me this.” Karen pulls a mobile phone from her bag. “It’s the new Nokia. Look, it’s really neat.”

Aysha holds out her hand and cradles the miniature alien with its silver and black styling, ovoid buttons and backlit screen. Selim takes off his headphones and looks across, impressed. The red Peugeot he drives is a regular money pit and he can’t afford to upgrade his phone.

“Aysha get Eid clothes,” Mum interrupts, the English words pouring out in her anxiety to impress. “Son Mohammed buy. Put on, Aysha. Show friend!”

Aysha pulls a face, but Karen drags her upright. “Come on, Aysh, show me your gear.”

“I haven’t even tried it yet.” Aysha says, closing her bedroom door behind them. “It’s not like I’ll wear it unless I go to a wedding or something.” She holds up the hanger with its elaborately figured blue and gold tunic and blue harem pants tapering to a cuff of the same gold embroidery.

“On, on, on.” Karen keeps up the chant until Aysha relents and slips out of her top and jeans, hopping from one foot to the other to climb into the harem pants before pulling the kameez over her head.

“Zip me up, then.”

Karen fiddles with the fastening on the back of the tunic then spins Aysha round to face her.

“Wow! You look like someone out of a fairy story. Like – what’s her name in Aladdin? Princess Jasmine.”

Aysha catches sight of herself in the mirror and scrunches her shoulder: the gold thread is scratchy. She twists her arm over her shoulder to tug at the zip, but Karen pulls her out of the room.

“You’d better show your mum.”

Mum smiles approvingly and calls Reshna, who has been lying down. The young woman smiles shyly at Karen, but looks positively overjoyed to see Aysha in the outfit.

“You like?”

Aysha suddenly realises that it was her sister-in-law who selected the blue and gold.

“It’s beautiful,” she says. She turns to go back upstairs, but Mum lays a hand on her arm.

“Keep it on,” she says, in Bangla. Aysha frowns, embarrassed at excluding Karen by the sudden switch of language, but her mother ploughs on. “Mo will be back with the children soon and Maryam is coming with the boys. Your friend understands,” she adds as Aysha mouths a silent sorry, “this is still a family day. Maybe another time you can go shopping.”

Abdul races in and snatches a samosa, while Mo unbuckles Ibrahim and lifts him from the buggy. He takes in Aysha’s outfit and gives a short nod.

“Who was that just left the house?”

“Karen,” Aysha says.

“I didn’t recognise her. She’s grown.”

“Yeah, I noticed!” Selim grins. Mo clicks his tongue and frowns at him and Sel goes back to his music.

Aysha’s sister Maryam arrives with her boys just as Mum lifts the last batch of samosas from the pan. Farhad, the elder, is only a year or two younger than Abdul, while Rahim is almost five. The three of them concoct some elaborate game which involves racing up and down both flights of stairs, screeching and diving behind the sofa, from where Dad looks on tolerantly, merely increasing the volume of the documentary he’s now watching. Mum threatens Abdul with dire consequences if any of them go into the room where Reshna’s resting and he constantly complains to his father that it’s not his fault. No-one reprimands Maryam’s boys.

Aysha’s sister’s marriage was arranged, but the family’s choice of partner has been a lucky one. Maryam’s husband Hassan runs a dry cleaning business with his father and, although they share a home with her in-laws, the house is large: an extended semi. At present, she’s busy explaining her plans for turning the garage into a playroom for the boys.

“It’s a pity you can’t get the basement here, Mum. There’s no way you can extend this house.”

Maryam stretches out plump fingers and inspects her fuchsia nails before selecting a warm vegetable pakora.

“We’ve only been here a few months,” Aysha comments, looking up. “Maud and Bert have been here years.”

“Is plenty room,” Mum adds.

Maryam waits until Mo has left the room to rescue his son from being trampled by the older boys. “I knew Ibrahim wouldn’t be their last,” she says, nodding towards the kitchen door. “Where will you put another one?”

Aysha stares. Suppose Mum expects her to give up her room? She’ll never be able to study if she has to share with one of the children.

Mum shrugs and taps her nose at her elder daughter. They both switch to a rapid Bangla which Aysha can barely follow.

“These things tend to solve themselves,” she hears her mother say. “In a couple of years there will be more room.”

She doesn’t understand. Mo and Reshna can’t move out because Mo pays towards this house and Sel doesn’t earn enough to live on his own. She still hasn’t discussed university with her parents and hasn’t decided whether to apply outside London or not, but, even if she does, she’ll need her room in the holidays.

“You are not to worry,” Maryam replies. “I’ll talk to my husband. You can count on our help, when the time comes.”