Tender Earth

‘It’s not that easy for some children, Laila – to make that transition between home and school,’ Mum explains. ‘Now, are you sure you’ve got everything organized? Sorry I’ve got to rush out. Dad’ll be back from his conference soon and he’s planning to go in late for a few days after so you’re not on your own.’

I go through to the kitchen and switch through the radio stations till I hear a song I like. I think Mira liked this one too. She used to sing those lines about a new dawn, a new day. I know the tune but I’ve never really listened to all the lyrics before. It does what the words say . . . makes you feel good. I turn it up really loud so I’ll be able to hear it upstairs.

I sit on my perch and look at the photo of me and Krish and Mira on her bed before they left. It makes me happy and sad at the same time. I can’t wait for Janu to be here. It’s far too quiet. I can actually hear bits of the house creaking. The staircase nearly talks to you when you walk up and down it, and the boiler downstairs makes a hissing, sighing noise. I can hear it from here. I think about calling Mira, but I suppose it’s my guilty conscience that makes me press on Krish’s number instead. Please answer.

Krish: How’s it going, Lai Lai?

Me: Laila. Remember?

Krish: Oh yeah!

Me: All right. How’s your work thing?

Krish: I’m loving it. I have to help all these city kids do abseiling, climbing and rowing and stuff.

Me: You’re a city kid!

Krish: I know – that’s why I get them. I think I could actually live here though. It’s so chilled with the mountains and lakes. That’s what I bike through every day! It’s good for my lyrics.

I hear Nana say in the background, ‘All very well, but he’s eating me out of house and home!’

Me: Is Nana spoiling you?

Krish: What do you think? Good job I’m doing all this exercise! How’s it going in the holding pen?

Me: It’s good so far. I like it. We’ve got this great tutor. She teaches Citizenship.

Krish: That’s a bit of luck.

Me: Janu’s coming to stay!

Krish: Serious? Tell him to call me when he gets here. How long for?

Me: Not long. He’s going off to see Priya in New York afterwards.

Krish: Tell him he can have my room if he wants. I’ll see if they’ll let me have a few days off, but I’m not sure. Someone’s just left . . . I might even get their job if I play my cards right and then I can actually live at the centre. You moved into Mira’s room yet?

Me: Not yet.

Krish: Get in there quick or Mira will have it back!

I can hear Nana Kath in the background telling Krish it’s time for breakfast and he needs to get off the phone.

Krish: Hang on a minute, Laila.

‘It’s Laila. She’s off to school in a minute. I think she’s on her own.’

Me: Hello! I’m OK on my own! That’s not why I called.

Krish: All right, don’t blow a gasket!

Me: I’m not. I wanted to tell you . . . I found a chime of Nana Josie’s, a kind of baby’s rattle.

Krish: Oh yeah! I chose that for you.

Me: What do you mean, you chose it?

Krish: When Nana Josie was ill in the hospice, she told me and Dad to go to her flat and choose something for you.

Me: Why didn’t you tell me?

Krish: I think cos we lost it . . . You don’t even remember being given it, right?

Me: That’s not the point.

Krish: Anyway, good you found it. Ha! Funny if you think about it . . . you having a go at us all for treating you like a baby – then that rattle shows up!

Me: It’s a chime!

Krish: Whatever!

I can hear Nana talking to Krish again. ‘Is she all right there on her own, Krish? Where are Sam and Uma anyway? One of them should be in. Tell her she should be getting ready for school now. She’d better not be late. Has she had a good breakfast? Ask her if she’s remembered a snack?’

I know where Mum gets the multiple-questions-never-waiting-for-an-answer thing from now.

Krish: Hang on, Nana; I can’t hear what she’s saying.

Me: Krish, do you remember one of Nana Josie’s friends called Simon?

Krish: The hippy painter guy? Yeah! He used to ride a bike everywhere. Not like the mountain bike they’ve given me. His had flowers and bells in the wheels. I remember that. Yeah, he was a legend.

Me: I don’t know about a bike – I just found a photo of him, that’s all. Just wondered if you knew him?

Krish: Simon was sound. I used to sit by Nana’s pond with him sometimes and watch the tadpoles. I wonder if he’s still around . . . Gotta go! Nana Kath’s getting on my case.

I decide that it’s safer to keep the letter from Simon with me in case Mum or Dad get tempted to have a nosey around or a tidy-up of the landing and find it. So I tuck it into a zip section at the back of my school bag.

I’ve still got a bit of time so I check my email to see if there are any messages. Maybe Mira’s emailed. There’s actually nothing from her, but there’s already an update alert on Janu’s blog, so I log in.

Priya’s ‘Holi Spring’ video that I watched the other day has been loaded up on to this page too. At first I think it’s a bit weird that it’s on here. Then, after I’ve watched it a few times, I get why it’s there. The faces of the children are so happy, just having fun chucking paint-powder at each other like any other kids. It’s not like those appeals you get on TV that make you feel miserable . . . like how do I even start to help?

I love watching Priya dance. She makes you think that she could do anything. The way she smiles and draws you in, it’s like she sweeps you up with her, so you start to believe that you’re dancing too. She’s spinning so fast in the video, it’s like she could just take off and fly.

At the end there’s a tiny bright yellow footprint that you can click on to donate.

When I watched this clip with Mum, I don’t really think I understood what it meant . . . but now, seeing the children in Janu’s House of Garland’s refuge in Kolkata throwing paint at the people in the park in New York and them throwing bright-coloured powder paint back, all laughing and playing together . . . I feel as if I do understand.

Barefoot Blogger

Because we all walk on the same earth

I catch the time in the corner of the screen. I can’t believe it’s already nine o’clock.

I grab my bag and run as fast as I can down the road. There’s hardly anyone about. One boy wearing our uniform gets off a bus, but he doesn’t look like he cares one way or the other if he’s late or not. I’m sprinting towards the school gate but Miss O’Brady, who nearly always stands there, blocks the way and hands me a pass to take to reception.

‘Oh, I didn’t know there was another one! I knew your sister Mira a little and your brother a bit better!’ She laughs. ‘Now, what’s wrong with me that I can’t recall his name . . . ?’

‘Oh, yes, that’s the one! Now calm yourself down now, Laila, sweetie. No need to get into such a state. I can see you’ve made an effort to make up for lost time.’ She winks at me. ‘I’ll pass that on to your form tutor – who is it you’re with?’

‘Oh, Mrs Latif – that lovely young woman. You’ll have no problems there then . . .’ She turns and takes hold of a boy’s shoulder. ‘Don’t be trying to sneak past me with your cheeky grin, Connor.’ Miss O’Brady gives the laid-back boy I saw near the bus a late pass too. ‘Get along with you now, young man. Wherever is your sense of urgency?’ She taps him on the back and ‘Connor’, who must be in Year Nine or Ten, rolls his eyes at me as if to say ‘Good luck!’ and walks slowly through the gates.

‘Whatever is he like?’ Miss O’Brady shakes her head. ‘Right, you feeling more like yourself now, young Laila?’

She laughs, waves back and shakes her head. ‘The cheek of him! Just like your brother. Though I have to say, I always had a soft spot for your Krish, even if he was so often late! Will you tell him Miss O’Brady asked after him?’ She shakes her finger at me suddenly, as if she’s just remembered what her job is. ‘Don’t let me be seeing too much of you here at the late gate, Laila Levenson . . . get on your way now!’

‘Laila Levenson, Seven Dials, I forgot my keys and had to go back because my mum’s not going to be in later.’

Is it always wrong to lie?

Is it always right to tell the truth?

‘You’re on concern,’ the receptionist tells me, in a voice that sounds like a recorded message. ‘There’ll be a note home and next time it’ll be a detention.’ She presses so hard on the paper that the bit of hair escaping from her clip bobs up and down as she registers my name in the late record.

Pari’s bagged a place for me next to her. She slides her backpack off the seat and I slip in beside her.

‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ Pari whispers. She looks really pleased to see me.