‘Massive march in town today,’ Dad says, turning up the radio. ‘Traffic will be terrible. I’d better set off now! I need to get that garden wall sorted before it falls on someone!’ He ruffles my hair as he grabs his keys.
‘We haven’t got much in food-wise for tonight,’ Mum says.
‘I’ll get something for dinner on the way home . . . should be back by seven at the latest! See you later!’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to go into work today, Laila . . . to set up my new office. You want to come and help me?’ Mum asks.
‘I’m grounded!’ I remind her as I tuck into a piece of toast to stop myself from smiling.
‘Yes, but you could come with me if you want.’
‘It’s OK!’ I say. ‘I’ve got loads of homework to do.’
Mum smiles at me, like she thinks I’m getting back on track. Now she’s listening to the radio – someone’s talking about the Women’s March.
‘Families, men, women and children are all welcome, as on previous marches. We are taking to the streets to remind the powers that be that we march for the protection of our rights, our safety, our health and our families. We recognize our vibrant and diverse communities are the strength of our country . . .’
‘If there’s another march, let’s go together,’ Mum says, tutting at herself. ‘If I wasn’t working . . .’
‘OK!’ I say taking a sip of tea and trying not to sound too interested. ‘What time will you be back?’ I ask.
‘Fiveish! If you get bored, you know where I am. Give me a call and you can come over and help.’
I watch Mum cross the road and then I race up the stairs. I take Nana’s painted banner from under the bed and roll it up into a scroll as small as it will go. I get two black bin bags and cover it up. Dark clouds fill the sky so I grab hold of Hope’s umbrella too. I’ve planned how to get to the start, but I don’t even have to follow my own instructions because as soon as I walk out of the door I see groups of people heading for the tube: whole families, people pushing prams, groups of women and girls, some boys too. There’s a man carrying a newborn baby in a sling, walking arm in arm with the mother. The baby’s so tiny you can only see its little yellow hat. The pavement’s pretty crowded so it’s easy to duck behind some people as I walk past Kez’s flat. Bubbe’s in the window watching people pass. She’s put a sign up:
TOO OLD TO MARCH.
NOT TOO OLD TO PROTEST!
She’s waving at people as they pass, and some of them wave back. I really miss Bubbe now Kez and me don’t see so much of each other.
I have to wait for two tubes to pass before I can squeeze on. But no one seems to mind that much. Maybe because most people are here for the same reason, travelling in the same direction. Some have banners sticking out of their bags, and the weird thing is that total strangers are actually talking to each other, laughing and joking. A girl with purple-dyed dreadlocks holding a guitar starts singing a folky song. She has a crackly sort of voice . . . it’s not that good. I wonder if the boy who showed me the way to ‘the Caring Community’ sings as well as plays the guitar. This girl sounds like she cares about the words she’s singing. I think she might have written this song herself . . . because the chorus is something about:
‘I can have purple hair, why should you care!’
At the end of the song, a few people clap. A lot of us change at Finsbury Park. I can’t believe that this is the same underground journey I took to see Simon. I have never felt less on my own than right now. I wish Simon could see me. I wonder if Hope will be on the march today.
It’s not raining when we come out of the tube, but it is windy. Everyone’s gathering in Victoria Park. There are some speakers – a politician I sort of recognize – but I don’t really listen because the voices are a bit distorted through the speakers. I just take in the atmosphere and all the banners with different slogans written on them. Standard ones printed by organizations, some written by hand, some that make me laugh and others with quotes and lines from poems.
‘UNTIL THEY BECOME CONSCIOUS THEY WILL NEVER REBEL, AND UNTIL THEY HAVE REBELLED THEY CANNOT BECOME CONSCIOUS’ #1984
MEN OF QUALITY DON’T FEAR EQUALITY
‘IF THE SOUL OF THE NATION IS TO BE SAVED, YOU MUST BECOME ITS SOUL’ – CORETTA SCOTT KING
SPEAK OF ME WITH LOVE NOT HATE
HERE FOR MY TRANS SISTERS
OUR RIGHTS AREN’T UP FOR GRABS AND NEITHER ARE WE
I AM WOMAN – WATCH ME FLY
KNOCK DOWN WALLS OF HATE AND LIES
MY BODY IS MY BORDER. HANDS OFF.
REFUGEE CHILDREN ARE MY CHILDREN
MOTHER NATURE WEEPS
GIRLS JUST WANT TO HAVE FUN-DAMENTAL HUMAN RIGHTS
NOW YOU’VE PISSED OFF GRANDMA!
I laugh out loud at that one, and the old black woman carrying it, surrounded by lots of young people who are holding a banner together that says:
AND TAKE IT FROM US – YOU DON’T WANT TO PISS OUR GRANDMA OFF!
I hold Nana’s banner under my arm. I suppose in a way I’m marching with my nana too.
People start to move out on to the road and raise their placards in the air.
A girl about my age is walking ahead of me carrying these words:
I’M A MUSLIM WOMAN.
I AM THIRTEEN YEARS OLD.
MALALA WAS TWELVE WHEN SHE CHANGED THE WORLD.
HOW OLD WILL YOU BE?
I would like to catch up with her, but I’m struggling a bit to unroll Nana’s banner. As I do, I drop Hope’s umbrella and it’s hard to pick it up because everyone’s moving slowly forward. I get caught up in all these marching feet and nearly trip over. Then this woman pushing a pram grabs it for me before it gets trodden into the ground.
‘Thanks!’ I say.
As she hands it to me the sky brightens and a glimpse of sunlight shoots through the clouds. I think of Simon sitting in his conservatory sunning himself.
‘What have you got there?’ the woman asks, as I try to unroll Nana’s banner. ‘Here, let me help you!’
She whistles when she sees it.
‘That’s a beauty!’
The little girl in the pram starts squealing when she sees it and strains to get free from the straps keeping her in.
‘You want to help hold your first banner, Fliss! Why don’t you put your umbrella in the pram? Doesn’t look like you’ll be needing it,’ she says, looking up at the sky, shrugging off her own raincoat and tucking it into the back of the pram. ‘I’m Jackie . . . this is Fliss. Why don’t we help each other out? How about I have Fliss on my shoulders and we can carry one side and you take the other!’ She lifts Fliss on to her shoulders and she grabs the bamboo pole. When her mum tries to hold it with her, the little girl squeals again.
‘All right, all right!’ Her mum laughs.
Proper little protestor! Nana’s words about me float through my mind.
‘Thanks!’ I laugh at Fliss, who is already wrestling her mum’s hands off the pole. ‘I’m Laila.’
‘How long did it take you to paint this?’ Jackie asks.
‘My nana painted it for her first march.’
Someone nearby has started up a chant, so Jackie has to lean in to me so that I can hear her. The banner folds, making a little enclosed tent around us.
‘Where’s your nana now?’ she asks gently.
‘She died. I didn’t really know her but she left me this!’
Jackie holds the banner higher and shouts over the chanting, ‘Her spirit’s not dead then, is it?’
Someone’s brought a tabla and starts up a drum beat that makes me think of Priya’s music. I take in all the colours of the crowd, and we just march along for a while laughing at Fliss because she looks so happy high up there holding our wonky banner . . .
‘Queen of the castle!’ Jackie laughs.
The chanting comes in waves. It lulls, and then builds again, surging over the crowd. Now, as we turn a big bend in the road, it settles down, and there’s just a few whistles going off here and there . . . A few people take photos of Nana’s banner.
‘Is this your first march then?’ Jackie asks.
I nod.
‘Fliss’s too!’ she says, looking up at her little girl holding tight on to the old bamboo sticks of Nana Josie’s banner.
‘Sorry I was so long! It took forever to sort everything out,’ Mum says as she walks in the door and looks up at me snuggling on my perch like I’ve been there all day long! I can’t stop grinning to myself. What I love most about the march is that nobody here knows I was there. I ring the chime . . . except for maybe somewhere out there . . . Nana Josie.
