A Beginner's Guide to Acting English Page 14

  Baba shrugged and said, 'He will be better than the Shah, at least. The people want change, they want anyone but not the Shah. Ayatollah is religious man but for Iran he is only alternative.'

  Mr Canning nodded and sipped his whisky.

  'I love our Queen, but I wouldn't have her running the country. She'd have us all shooting foxes and breeding bleedin' corgis. Mind you, she'd be better than Thatcher, eh? She's a right old battleaxe.'

  Margaret Thatcher was on the news as much as the Shah and the Ayatollah were. All I knew about her was that she didn't like milk and Rebecca's dad called Thatcher 'the milk snatcher' because she stopped schools having free milk. Our school still had free milk, though. Rebecca's dad said that the PTA had to fight Thatcher to get it.

  Our milk was delivered by Mr Rhodes the caretaker every day. It sat in our classroom getting warm until just before break, when a milk monitor was chosen who'd hand out milk and little blue straws for everyone. We kept the milk bottle tops and put them in the huge bag of foil we collected for the guide dog fund. Montpelier School had bought a few guide dogs for the blind and there were pictures of them in the school foyer. Once, one of the blind people brought in their dog to show us in assembly and some children could stroke him but I couldn't because I was in the third row and couldn't reach. The dogs were beautiful and gold and always called names like Honey or Goldie or Prince.

  We were meant to collect foil at home and bring it in to add to the pile. When I told Maman I needed to collect foil, she went out and bought a brand-new roll so I could take it to school. Mrs Wybrow said that wasn't how we were meant to do it, but to thank my mum anyway.

  The elections were about to be held, even I knew that. Margaret Thatcher looked nice. Like she could be one of my teachers at school only she was smarter. The teachers at my school all had messy hair but Margaret Thatcher's hair was very neat, like vanilla ice cream.

  Some days, we never knew when until it happened, Baba did one of the things that Maman usually did, like make us breakfast or bathe us or take us to the park. He hardly ever did these things, so when he did – and it was always his own decision – he got as excited as Peyvand and I and laughed and joked and said, 'Tadadada! You father is the champion of washing the dishes!' or whatever it was he was doing with us. Having Baba all to ourselves was the best out of all our treats. When Baba gave us a bath, he sang silly songs and didn't mind at all about getting the whole of the bathroom floor wet or dropping the towels on the floor. Baba rubbed soap in the loofah Maman Shamsi sent over from Iran and then blew into it, making huge bubbles come out of the sides.

  'Fati!' he called to Maman, 'you relax! Leave the kids to me!' and Maman knew that after she had relaxed she would have to come and mop and clean after him.

  This morning, Baba had woken up in a good mood and announced he would be making pancakes for breakfast.

  'Do you know how to make pancakes?' Peyvand asked, impressed. Pancakes were very English.

  'Of course! No one makes pancakes like your Baba! Fati!' he called. 'Where are the eggs?'

  Maman came into the kitchen and opened cupboards and doors that Baba had never touched to find him all the things he needed. Baba got eggs and flour and sugar and mixed it all up in a bowl. He was making a mess and Peyvand and I were helping and giggling and Baba was singing tadadatadadtadada! And Maman shook her head and rolled her eyes and went into the living room to do a crossword.

  Baba soaked slices of white bread in his mixture, put a big knob of butter in the frying pan and fried the eggy bread on both sides. He made a huge pile of his 'pancakes' and sat with Peyvand and I at the kitchen table to eat them. He instructed us to cover the bread with honey. It was the most delicious breakfast I had ever had.

  The radio was on and we could hear Margaret Thatcher speaking.

  'Is Margaret Thatcher going to be the queen, Baba?' I asked.

  'No! She is going to be the next prime minister.'

  'Who chooses the prime minister?' Peyvand was always asking clever questions like that.

  'The people choose. They vote and choose,' Baba told him.

  'Are you going to vote for her, Baba?'

  'We're not British, I can't vote.'

  'So did you vote for the Shah?'

  Baba laughed. 'No, azizam, no one votes for the Shah.'

  'Then how did he get chosen?'

  'Britain choose the Shah.'

  Then, Baba told us about Mossadeq.

  Baba had the picture of an old man above his desk. For ages I thought it was a picture of Baba's dead father, but it wasn't, it was Mossadeq. The story was quite long and grownup but I did my best to understand it because Peyvand understood it and I didn't want him to think I was a baby.

  'The people in Iran chose Mossadeq to be prime minister. They voted for him, just like people here vote. When you vote for a leader, it's called democracy. This was the start of Iran's democracy.'

  Britain didn't like Mossadeq, Baba said.

  'Why?' I asked, suddenly defensive of the old man above Baba's desk.

  Because, Baba explained, he wouldn't let them have Iran's oil.

  'They took Mossadeq to court and the court decided Mossadeq was right to keep Iranian oil in Iranian hands.'

  Britain wasn't happy about this and so got money from America, to help get rid of Mossadeq and the democracy. I always heard Baba and his friends talk angrily about 'koodeh ta' but I didn't know for ages it was coup d'état, even after I found out what it meant. It meant they got rid of Mossadeq.

  'They got rid of the old Shah and put his son in charge instead, the Shah that we have now. Iranian people were angry. They loved Mossadeq and didn't want the new Shah because they did not choose him and he listened to Britain and America too much.'

  The people in Iran were angry with Britain and America for ruining their democracy.

  'So Iran is still ruled by kings. One dies and his son takes over. They make up all the rules for Madar Jaan and Maman Shamsi and everyone else in Iran to follow. Is that good or bad?'

  'It's good,' I said, 'because everyone knows what to do.' I beamed, thinking I'd said the right answer.

  Baba looked at Peyvand, 'What do you think, son?'

  Peyvand's crème caramel forehead was taut with concentration. He only had to think about it for a few seconds. 'It's bad,' he said. 'It's bad because the kings can do whatever they like and no one can get rid of them even if they do something really bad.'

  'Afareen!' Baba kissed Peyvand's forehead. I wondered if it actually tasted of caramel. I had never kissed it. 'That's right! Now, in England, even though there is a queen, she doesn't make decisions on how we live. In England there is a parliament and a prime minister. Who is the prime minister?'

  I didn't know. I helped myself to another pancake and smothered it with honey.

  'Callaghan!' shouted Peyvand.

  'Afareen!' said Baba again, pleased. Peyvand knew everything. Probably more than Mrs Wybrow.

  Everyone called the Shah 'The Puppet Shah' because he did everything Britain and America wanted.

  'Down with the Shah!' I shouted.

  'Don't speak with your mouth full!' Baba scolded.

  'Are they going to kill Nadia and Maman Shamsi?'

  Maman laughed and kissed my head. 'No, azizam, they don't go to demonstrations,' she reassured me.

  They did though, they all went. Maman Shamsi had told me herself on the phone. 'Tell the English people you see that this is all their fault!' she said. I knew she was talking about Mossadeq, I wouldn't have known what she meant before Baba told me the story. I would have wondered what Mrs Wybrow and Rebecca's mum and dad had to do with Iran and the Shah.

  I still didn't entirely understand why everyone hated the Shah. Baba tried to explain, but he was always interrupted by the phone ringing. Maman was better at explaining and we picked up a lot from the adults' conversations when they thought we weren't listening.

  Everyone had got very upset with a party the Shah had thrown. It wasn't any
ordinary party; Maman said he spent half the country's money on it. The Shah was rich, very rich, and a lot of people in Iran were as poor as Tahereh, or even poorer, and instead of helping them the Shah had a massive party to celebrate the anniversary of the Persian Empire at Persepolis. Maman said he spent all the money that he could have given to poor people on entertaining dignitaries from Europe. He threw money away, showing off his wealth. This made everyone very angry. It was the last straw; they wanted him out.

  Peyvand and I were against the Shah because he was against poor people. Baba had been poor when he was a boy so we marched around the living room, punching our fists in the air chanting marg bar shah! Maman told us off and said that we shouldn't be copying grown-ups we saw on television and that we shouldn't pay too much attention to the adults' conversations about Iran.

  'Everyone has different opinions, so please don't repeat the things you hear your Baba and me say. It's no one else's business what we say in our own home.'

  Iranians in London began to be suspicious of each other. We all learned to keep conversations with strangers superficial because the other party would eventually try and extract information from you.

  'Honestly,' Mitra sat on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs while she chatted to Maman, 'the minute the Iranians at my college know I live with you, they start asking questions about Hadi. Who does he know, where does he stand, who comes and who goes from your house.'

  'Vai!' Maman said. 'What business is it of anyone?'

  'That's what I tell them,' said Mitra.

  After Zenith left, Rebecca decided that I should be her best friend instead of Susie. Susie was to remain her best friend after school, but during school hours, I was number one. I didn't mind sharing, I had my own out-of-school best friend, Shadi Kardan, who had about a million party dresses in her wardrobe, and a fridge in her bedroom.

  Rebecca Thompson did not ask nicely if I would be her best friend. She marched up to me one day by the sandpit and announced that if I didn't become her best friend, she would tell her dad who, she said, was a magician, and he would turn me into a lump of poo and stick me on the ceiling.

  I believed her. I had seen English people on TV who were magicians so I knew it was true. In any case, I had to do what Rebecca said. She had long dark frizzy hair and thought nothing of narrowing her eyes and scowling at you. I didn't dare disobey her. So she became my best friend. The first thing she made me do was learn to spell her name. She stood over me in the playground and made me repeat R-E-B-E-C-C-A until I got it right. Then she said, 'Do you love me more or your mum?' I said my mum so she kicked me. She kept asking and kicking me until I said that I loved her more than I loved my mum.

  'Don't worry, Shaparak,' Susie Hampton told me later when I told her of Rebecca's rules for best friends. 'I had to do the same thing, even though I love my mum much more than I love Rebecca.'

  I sighed. Being best friends with Rebecca was harder than with Zenith. I missed my nice quiet Indian friend.

  In the summer we were allowed to spend lunchtimes in the little park adjoining our school playground. Rebecca and I spent most of our time under the branches of a big willow tree. 'It's a haunted tree,' Rebecca announced one day. 'Look! Look! There's a green hand behind you coming to grab you!'

  I screamed, so did Rebecca. We ran from under the tree and told the other girls about our ghoulish tree. The tree became our secret world where those girls who dared came and sat and listened to Rebecca's spooky stories. The severed green hand would reveal itself during one of these stories and little girls would run screaming out from under the tree.

  Rebecca told us that her dad had chopped off her arms and fed them to the dog. Then, he'd gone out and killed another little girl, chopped off her arms and sewed them on to Rebecca. Rebecca's dad, was, after all, a magician who could do the most horrid things.

  'So my arms belong to a ghost,' Rebecca told us one afternoon after we'd all finished our sandwiches and went to play under the tree. She held them out in front of her for us to see. 'That's why they are so pale.' They were very pale, and covered in moles.

  Suddenly Rebecca pointed behind us and screamed, 'The Green Hand!!!'

  On cue we all screamed, jumped up and ran from under the tree. All of us except Susie Hampton. She pulled apart the branches, popped her head out and calmly said, 'There's nothing here.' We all stared at her. 'There's nothing here, look.' She pulled back the willow's curtains for us to peer inside. 'There's no green hand and Rebecca is fibbing about her dad. He's not a magician at all, he's an accountant. I know that because my mummy told me.'

  We all stood silent. My heart was in my mouth. It didn't matter if it was all fibs, what mattered was that it was Rebecca's game and we all went along with Rebecca's games. What would Rebecca do to Susie? I was glad I wasn't in her shoes. Rebecca was glaring at Susie with real menace; those blue eyes flashed with anger. Susie Hampton was banished for ever from under the tree, she was never to be seen under it again or there would be trouble.

  Rebecca tried to continue with her lunchtime horror corner but it was never really the same after that. Some of the girls sided with Susie and now spent their lunchtimes playing handstands with her. For other girls, the magic was gone and they drifted away. I stayed though; the tree became just mine and Rebecca's again. The severed hand did not appear as often, and, in time, it disappeared altogether, but Rebecca and I still loved to play under there.

  MASOOD

  Andrew and Christopher Nelson had blue eyes and very red lips and did not play with girls, especially not after the kiss-chase incident. They had made this clear the very first time I met them by completely ignoring everything I said and never really even looking at me. Peyvand accepted the situation with alarming ease. I stood on the balcony watching the boys down in the rose garden. I think they were playing Star Wars. They looked as if they were fighting with light sabres. There was no point asking them if I could be Princess Leia because every time I did Peyvand said, 'She's not in this bit.'

  I always let Peyvand play with me and my friends, even when he jumped around shouting and spoiling our games. But I was to stay away when the twins came round. You couldn't tell Andrew and Christopher apart. They wore the same clothes and had exactly the same face. The only difference was that one of Christopher's eyes was blurry because it was blind. Maman said he'd lost his eye in an accident and I was under no circumstances to stare or ask him questions about it. I never properly looked at Christopher, in case he thought I was staring. I hardly ever looked at Andrew either, in case he turned out to be Christopher.

  That day I hung around the flat by myself. The only thing that really happened before the phone rang was that I locked myself in Baba and Maman's bedroom again. I had been sitting in there looking at the box of Maman's wedding pictures. The photos were black and white and in all of them Maman looked like a beautiful angel. Baba said she looked like a famous film star. Baba looked short and impish and in every photo he was grinning or chuckling as though he couldn't believe his luck.

  I'd never seen Baba without his beard and moustache, except in photos as old as his wedding photos. His eyes and lips looked even bigger than they were now. He looked like one of the caricatures he drew. I loved Baba's drawings. I had one that he drew of Peyvand and I watching TV up on our bedroom wall. The drawing of Peyvand looked just like him, but funny. He looked like the boy in the 'Love Is ...' cartoon books that Baba had. Baba had lots of cartoon books. They weren't kids' cartoons. Though they were drawings, they were for grown-ups. Baba tried to explain one to me once that was meant to be funny but I didn't really get it.

  Baba crouched down on the other side of the door and for the millionth time tried to explain how to open the door myself from the inside by turning the little dial on the knob. It was like cat's cradle. No matter how often people showed me, I didn't get it.

  The phone rang. Baba stopped his lecture on door safety to answer it. I didn't mind being locked in Maman and Baba's bedroom too much. Maman's
big jewellery box was in there and I took out all her beads and put them around my neck. She had pearls and a necklace made from big pink stones and lots of delicate gold chains with diamonds and rubies on them. I could hear Baba pick up the phone. It was Iran calling, I could tell straight away because Baba shouted, 'ALLO? ALLO? SALAAM! SALAAM! Can you hear me?' The next words he said sounded strange. Not the words themselves, but his tone. I sat on the floor of their bedroom with ten or so of Maman's necklaces around my neck and listened.

  I knew immediately that something was upsetting Baba. Whatever it was could never be fixed. Even though I didn't know what it was, that something hung in the air and I was breathing it in. Maman had run in from the kitchen; I could hear her asking with urgency, 'Chi-eh? Chi-eh? What is it, Hadi?' Then a more panicked 'Chi Shodeh?' What's happened?

  Maman had been in the kitchen frying fish. She was wearing her apron and the fish-slice was still in her hand when Baba told her that her brother was dead.

  Baba had to turn off the stove before he could hold her.

  I heard Maman screaming. I heard her scream and sob and then I heard Baba's low, quieter weeping when Maman took in a breath. I went to the door, pushed down the silver dial and turned it, opening the door.

  Maman and Baba were sitting on the floor. Baba was holding Maman in his arms. The air felt thick. I waded through it and tucked myself between Maman and Baba. Maman's scream filled the flat, burst out of the windows and tumbled down into the rose garden where the boys were playing Star Wars.

  Even Betty, in her kitchen mixing flour and eggs and butter and sugar, heard, Masood! Masood! Baradaram! Vai, Baradaram! My brother! Oh, my brother!

  Our flat was soon full of the people we knew best of all; they all wore black. Maman greeted each of them by sobbing on their shoulders. Once or twice she fell to her knees and the friends had to fall down with her. Someone had made halva and passed it around to drink with tea that was too sweet even for me. When someone died, you made halva. Not the powdery kind, but a sticky, fudgy kind.