‘Thank you, Mrs Iqbal,’ said Mrs Owens, as Janice and Ellen looked over to her with the piteous, saddened smiles they reserved for subjugated Muslim women.
‘All those in favour of the motion to remove the Harvest Festival from the school calendar-’
‘On the grounds of its pagan roots.’
‘On the grounds of certain pagan… connotations. Raise your hands.’
Mrs Owens scanned the room. One hand, that of the pretty red-headed music teacher Poppy Burt-Jones, shot up, sending her many bracelets jangling down her wrist. Then the Chalfens, Marcus and Joyce, an ageing hippy couple both dressed in pseudo-Indian garb, raised their hands defiantly. Then Samad looked pointedly at Clara and Archie, sitting sheepishly on the other side of the hall, and two more hands moved slowly above the crowd.
‘All those against?’
The remaining thirty-six hands lifted into the air.
‘Motion not passed.’
‘I am certain the Solar Covenant of Manor School Witches and Goblins will be delighted with that decision,’ said Samad, retaking his seat.
After the meeting, as Samad emerged from the toilets, having relieved himself with some difficulty in a miniature urinal, the pretty red-headed music teacher Poppy Burt-Jones accosted him in the corridor.
‘Mr Iqbal.’
‘Hmm?’
She extended a long, pale, lightly freckled arm. ‘Poppy Burt-Jones. I take Magid and Millat for orchestra and singing.’
Samad replaced the dead right hand she meant to shake with his working left.
‘Oh! I’m sorry.’
‘No, no. It’s not painful. It just does not work.’
‘Oh, good! I mean, I’m glad there’s no, you know, pain.’
She was what you would call effortlessly pretty. About twenty-eight, maybe thirty-two at most. Slim, but not at all hard-bodied, and with a curved ribcage like a child; long, flat breasts that lifted at their tips; an open-neck white shirt, some well-worn Levis and grey trainers, a lot of dark red hair swished up in a sloppy ponytail. Wispy bits falling at the neck. Freckled. A very pleasant, slightly goofy smile which she was showing Samad right now.
‘Was there something you wanted to discuss about the twins? A problem?’
‘Oh no, no… well, you know, they’re fine. Magid has a little difficulty, but with his good marks I’m sure playing the recorder isn’t high on his list, and Millat has a real flair for the sax. No, I just wanted to say that I thought you made a good point, you know,’ she said, chucking her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the hall. ‘In the meeting. The Harvest Festival always seemed so ridiculous to me. I mean, if you want to help old people, you know, well, vote for a different government, don’t send them cans of Heinz spaghetti.’ She smiled at him again and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
‘It is a great shame more people do not agree,’ said Samad, flattered somehow by the second smile and sucking in his well-toned 57-year-old stomach. ‘We seemed very much in the minority this evening.’
‘Well, the Chalfens were behind you – they’re such nice people – intellectuals,’ she whispered, as if it were some exotic disease of the tropics. ‘He’s a scientist and she’s something in gardening – but both very down to earth with it. I talked to them and they thought you should pursue it. You know, actually, I was thinking that maybe we could get together at some point in the next few months and work on a second motion for the September meeting – you know, nearer the actual time, make it a little more coherent, maybe, print out leaflets, that sort of thing. Because you know, I’m really interested in Indian culture. I just think those festivals you mentioned would be so much more… colourful, and we could tie it in with art work, music. It could be really exciting,’ said Poppy Burt-Jones, getting really excited. ‘And I think it would be really good, you know, for the kids.’
It was not possible, Samad knew, for this woman to have any erotic interest in him whatsoever. But still he glanced around for Alsana, still he jangled his car keys nervously in his pockets, still he felt a cold thing land on his heart and knew it was fear of his God.
‘I’m not actually from India, you know,’ said Samad, with infinitely more patience than he had ever previously employed the many times he had been required to repeat this sentence since moving to England.
Poppy Burt-Jones looked surprised and disappointed. ‘You’re not?’
‘No. I’m from Bangladesh.’
‘Bangladesh…’
‘Previously Pakistan. Previous to that, Bengal.’
‘Oh, right. Same sort of ball-park, then.’
‘Just about the same stadium, yes.’
There was a bit of a difficult pause, in which Samad saw clearly that he wanted her more than any woman he had met in the past ten years. Just like that. Desire didn’t even bother casing the joint, checking whether the neighbours were in – desire just kicked down the door and made himself at home. He felt queasy. Then he became aware that his face was moving from arousal to horror in a grotesque parody of the movements of his mind, as he weighed up Poppy Burt-Jones and all the physical and metaphysical consequences she suggested. He must speak before it got any worse.
‘Well… hmm, it is a good idea, retabling the motion,’ he said against his will, for something more bestial than his will was now doing the talking. ‘If you could spare the time.’
‘Well, we can talk about it. I’ll give you a call about it in a few weeks. We could meet after orchestra, maybe?’
‘That would be… fine.’
‘Great! That’s agreed, then. You know, your boys are really adorable – they’re very unusual. I was saying it to the Chalfens, and Marcus put his finger on it: he said that Indian children, if you don’t mind me saying, are usually a lot more-’
‘More?’
‘Quiet. Beautifully behaved but very, I don’t know, subdued.’
Samad winced inside, imagining Alsana listening to this.
‘And Magid and Millat are just so… loud.’
Samad tried to smile.
‘Magid is so impressive intellectually for a nine-year-old – everybody says so. I mean, he’s really remarkable. You must be so proud. He’s like a little adult. Even his clothes… I don’t think I’ve ever known a nine-year-old to dress so – so severely.’
Both twins had always been determined to choose their own clothes, but where Millat bullied Alsana into purchases of red-stripe Nike, Osh-Kosh Begosh and strange jumpers that had patterns on the inside and the out, Magid could be found, whatever the weather, in grey pullover, grey shirt and black tie with his shiny black shoes and NHS specs perched upon his nose, like some dwarf librarian. Alsana would say, ‘Little man, how about the blue one for Amma, hmm?’, pushing him into the primary colours section of Mothercare. ‘Just one blue one. Go so nice with your eyes. For Amma, Magid. How can you not care for blue? It’s the colour of the sky!’