19

Nadima’s Family

Walking up the path with Nad to her front door, I suddenly felt nervous. Stupid really. I never normally worry about meeting new people. But I had no idea how much English her family could actually speak. And I didn’t speak any Kurdish at all. What if we just sat there staring at each other all evening? How embarrassing would THAT be?

The front door opened. A woman stood in the doorway beaming at me. ‘Hel-lo, hel-lo! Welcome, to my home!’ she cried in a very strong accent. It was Nadima’s mum (obviously). A small girl stood next to her, smiling at me shyly. And then a very little boy peered out from behind his mum’s legs, and stared at me anxiously. He had the most enormous dark brown eyes – like pools of melted dark chocolate – and the longest lashes I have ever seen. He was so cute!

(Btw, why did I have to get three enormous great big brothers when little ones are so much cuter? So not fair!)

‘This is my mother,’ said Nadima. ‘This is my sister. She is called Rasha. And this is my brother. He is called Sami.’ It sounded like she was saying those phrases you learn in French in Year 6.

I smiled at them, but Sami ducked behind his mum, who laughed and tousled his hair. Then Nadima grabbed my hand and pulled me indoors.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Cushions on the floor, low tables, Persian carpets and lots of those patterned metal lamps, I suppose. (I have obviously seen way too many Disney cartoons.) I wasn’t expecting it to be like an ordinary house, with a dining table and chairs, a couple of sofas and a TV. But it was.

We followed Nadima’s mum into the kitchen. There was a pan steaming away on the hob.

‘Is Turkish Delight. I make for you!’ she said, giving me a warm smile.

Nadima’s mum was actually making Turkish Delight.

How awesome was THAT?

‘Thank you! I love your Turkish Delight!’ I said, and Nadima’s face lit up as she grinned at me.

I looked around the kitchen. It was plastered with sticky labels. Everything in sight was labelled – in English!

Fridge … cooker … kettle … sink … tap … cupboard … drawer … There was even one on the ceiling!

Nadima’s mother followed my gaze. ‘Nadima do,’ she said proudly. ‘We all learning English.’

Then she turned back to the saucepan, picked up a bag of sugar and poured it in.

‘What is called?’ said Nadima. I thought she was asking me, as usual, but Rasha answered.

‘Sugar!’ she said.

‘Yes! Good, Rasha!’ said Nadima.

‘Sugar!’ repeated Nadima’s mum, and then she spoke to Sami in Kurdish and they all looked at him.

Nadima knelt down next to him. ‘Sami, say “sugar”!’ she coaxed gently. He pulled his plump little mouth into a pout and said, ‘Shu-da!’

OMG! Death by cuteness, or what?!

‘Clever boy, Sami!’ I laughed.

Nadima’s mum smiled warmly and went back to cooking the Turkish Delight. She picked up a packet, took out something that looked a bit like lasagne sheets and slid them into the pan, where they instantly melted away.

‘What’s that?’ I asked Nadima. Shrugging, she handed me the packet.

It was written in English. But I couldn’t actually read it, because the writing was fancy and squiggly and I really struggle when they do that.

‘What is called?’ Nadima asked me.

They all looked at me expectantly.

‘Um …’ I stalled. There was no way I was going to admit I couldn’t read the label, so, rather ingeniously, if I say so myself, I said, ‘Packet!’ To be fair, the box was empty. So technically I was only holding a packet.

‘Pack-et?’ repeated her mum, looking at me questioningly.

Nadima shot me an odd look. And I knew, I just knew, she’d guessed I couldn’t read the label. But she took the box out of my hand and held it up to her mum. ‘Packet,’ she said, and then she pointed at a couple of other cardboard boxes on the table and said, ‘Packet … packet. Is right, Jaz? Yes?’

I wanted to hug her, but I just said, ‘Yes!’ and then I went through everything on the table, pointing and saying, ‘Packet, packet, bottle, bag, packet …’ depending on the container.

‘Ah!’ said her mum. ‘Thank you!’

Nadima took me upstairs to her room, which she shared with Rasha. We clambered up onto the top bunk. Rasha climbed up too, and then Sami wanted to join us. So we hauled him up by his dungarees. He was clutching a picture book, which he thrust at me. Then he confidently snuggled onto my lap, waiting for me to read it.

I hate reading aloud. It was only a picture book – and it’s not like I couldn’t read it. But it always feels like a test. So then I panic and muddle the words. I opened the book, but I could feel my face starting to go all hot. Nadima leaned over and took the book out of my hands.

‘Is OK, Jaz. I read,’ she said.

I shot her a grateful grin. I don’t know how, but Nadima just … understood. I didn’t even have to try to explain.

Which, given that it would probably be totally impossible to do that, was just as well!